Story Interrupted

Insanity... I'm not sure where I dreamed this one up from.

 

     "Harry leened shyly twords Malfoy, and would like his lips nervusly before pressing them to his."

     "Oh ye gods! You have got to be joking me!" Lora wailed in outrage.
     Laughing at her roommate’s outburst, Rain replied, "I thought you might like that. I found a whole site of fanfic." Lora rolled her eyes in annoyance.
     "Lemme guess; half of them with a Harry/Malfoy love thing, half of them with a Harry/Snape love thing, and all of them badly written. I mean, this one didn’t even use spell and grammar check!" she complained loudly, gesturing at the computer screen.
     "Nah! It’s not that bad," Rain replied with a chuckle, a mischivous glint in her eye. "Not all of them are Harry Potter!" she stated in an overly cheerful matter of fact tone. Lora rolled her eyes again, shaking her head.
     "Oh lord," she moaned hopelessly, "I’m going to regret asking this, but who else have they murdered?"
     "Mmm...looks like Anne McCaffrey...Tanya Huff...Douglas Adams...heh, Sir Aurthor Conan Doyle even..." Lora visibly winced at that one. "...And...some others I don’t recognize; Robin Hobb, Wendy Pini, Neil Gaiman...that sort of thing."
     Lora whimpered as if in pain. "Pini?! They crucified Pini?! Why must you torment me, Rain? Why?" she cried melocramatically, falling to her knees by Rain’s computer chair. Rain blinked in a comical manner, staring at her in confusion.
     "Who’s Wendy Pini? I’ve never heard of her." Lora gave a snort of derision, scoffing at her poor, uneducated roommate.
     "Only the first, the best, the greatest graphic novel...ishhhrgct!"

     The tape player stops with a loud, painful click, eliciting a long and interesting string of invectives from its operator, most of them completely impossible for a tape player to perform, even assuming said tape player had the physical anatomy required to perform said actions. And still, the tape player remains unmoved, as is the way of tape players.
     "Damn it! Sometimes, I wonder why I even bother," the operator sighs, glaring at the antique device and gingerly prying open the face to extract the tape. After years of untangling the delicate metallic thread from the jaws of the tempermental, tape-hungry machines, her nimble fingers go about the task with practiced ease, removing the tape in one piece.
     "Because," the operator’s partner, some would say in crime, replies, grinding out the butt of a cigarette with a booted heel, "you are hoping for another WaterGate tape." The operator gives a snort, her green eyes peering sardonically at him over quaint lenses perched on her nose.
     "There are no more WaterGate tapes," she replies whilst winding the tape into its plastic case. "You should know that, you’re the history buff."
     He chuckles good-humouredly, stepping closer to her and giving her a kiss on the temple, one arm wrapping itself around her waist. "You know what I mean, m’dear. You loved the spotlight they gave us." She sighs, turning a bit to lean into his arms, her back resting against his well-muscled chest. The stubble on his chin tickles the top of her head where it rests. She breathes in his scent, smelling cigarette smoke and a touch of alcohol, small things about him forever engraved in her memory. He was cocky, self assured, and the universe’s worst pilot as far as she could tell, but there were definite times he made up for all of that. Like now. He was right, of course. She loved the spotlight and the tapes they had stumbled upon by luck had brought that and more; much needed cash for supplies and repairs that had previously been jury-rigged to last just long enough to get through the lean times, plus offers for other jobs, which in turn brought more cash. The tapes had been from some political stink of a bygone era a couple centuries back. Oddly enough, the tapes caused an extensive change in the history books...

    "Lyn!" It wasn’t so much the number of decibels attributed to that call as the tone of voice attached to it and the proximity of it to her left ear that caused the teenager to startle from her seat.
    "Aww, Mom! You broke my concentration!" she whined in the way teenagers have that isn’t quite the high-pitched, needle-voiced whining of toddlers, and anyone who has never had a teenager assumes is just mild complaining, but anyone with experience knows is, in fact, whining.
    "Lynette Nocturne Shroeder, I will break more than your concentration if you don’t get that paper written!"
    "But I was writing!" Lyn tried to prevaricate, but to no avail.
    "Now." Lyn winced, as that tone of voice left no opportunity for discussion. Sulking slightly, she changed windows on her computer and began writing, her fingers nearly a blur on the keyboard.

 

Literary Analysis Question 2

In Kate Chopin’s short story "Desiree’s Baby," Desiree is the perfect example of a southern gentlewoman. Though her parentage is unknown, she is raised by Louisiana plantation owners. She has an idyllic life. Her adoptive parents adore her as they are unable to have children of their own. She grows to be "beautiful and gentle, affectionate and sincere – the idol of Valmonde." Then she falls in love. That seems to be the downfall of many a fine young lady. I mean, it’s just a personal observation of mine, but as soon as some handsome young so-and-so bats his big, brown eyes at her, a girl loses her head.

    THWACK!
    "Ow!" Lyn yelped, rubbing the back of her head where it had so recently been visited by the hand of an irritated mother.
    "I’d suggest you cut those last three lines, dear. You’d get a better grade." And with that, she wandered...

    BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!
    "We’re doofy. This parmer has brocked a frabous grick and must repown. If this parmer famues to brock frabous gricks, please temen Microsoft. Bot you!"
    "Oh stear! The parmer is gonna repown! And I didn’t even telly! I’ll jilk all my alfit!" The little blue dude moaned. He’d been ‘alfitting’ quite a bit on his story and so was much upset at ‘jilking’ almost half of it. You see, he imagined a place where people weren’t various shades of blue, like his people, but instead, were various shades of brown. He liked brown.
     Sighing ever so despairingly, he ‘repowned’ his ‘parmer’ and quickly began typing away again. He had, in fact, ‘jilked’ over two thirds of his story and was most depressed about that, but with three nimble fingers on each of his four arms, he quickly rewrote it. Of course, it wasn’t as good as the first story. Or rather, as good as the first story would have been. But then again, since the first story was never finished, perhaps it could be said that the second story was better by virtue of the fact that it was completed while the first wasn’t.
    Regardless of which was better and which wasn’t, it was the second story that got completed, sent to a publisher, sent back, edited, returned to the publisher, lost for three of the little blue dude’s years, found, sent back, re-edited, returned to the publisher again, queried, sent before a committee, deemed OK for public consumption by the FDA, published, printed, sold, bought, and turned into a movie where the main actor bore a striking resemblance to John Wayne. In a little-blue-dude-ish way, of course.
    Unfortunately, the movie flopped. The little blue dude died penniless (or rather tuttleless as little blue dudes don’t use pennies) and heart broken. He was buried next to his mother and a stone’s throw away from his great-aunt on his father’s side in a nice little cemetery with a nice little ceremony. Please bear in mind, this isn’t the John Wayne little blue dude that died. He, in fact, despite the poor showing the movie made, starred in many other little blue dude productions and became fabulously wealthy. (That means he had lots of tuttles. A great deal of tuttles, in fact.) But that is a story for some other time.

    Lucifer sits in a comfortable papa-san chair, blinking in a rather comical fashion, his eyes going from the computer screen on the desk, to God, and back again.
    "Well? What do you think?" God asks, sitting in an equally comfortable computer chair at the desk.
    "What. The. Hell." is the only thing Lucifer can think to say.
    "What? It’s a story! Ain’t it awesome?" God bubbles enthusiastically, grinning happily. Lucifer shakes his head in bafflement, trying to think of something to say. I mean, how do you go about telling the creator of the universe, the universe that includes yourself, mind you, that his story sucks. And not just sucks, but sucks big time. I’m talking sucks hairy elephantitis monkey balls.
    "God," Lucifer says evenly, "I’m going to ask you a question..."
    "Um...oh...kay..." God replies, seeming a little confused and wary.
    "And I’m going to ask it in all seriousness..."
    "Uh..ok."
    "And I want you to answer truthfully. Can you do that for me?"
    "Sure!"
    "What, in all of Creation’s name, have you been smoking?"
    "What?"
    "I mean, I know there’s some good s**t out there in the universe. I’ve tried most of it, but this beats all. Come on! Out with it! What the hell have you been smoking? And why the hell haven’t you shared any with me?"
    God just laughs, throwing his head back, his chair leaning back with his weight. "Nothing! You know I’m clean. I’m just feeling a little...hyper I guess. So I wrote it down."
    "Ok, I can accept that. But you know what?" Lucifer reaches across the desk for the keyboard. "For the good of the universe in general, I’m going to hit this little button right here and delete this story. Ok?"
    "No! Not that but–"

 

 

Error #αΥΩ: Reality.sys corrupted
Universe Reset. Reboot (y/n)? _

Author's Note

Any suggestions on how I can make it better?

Reviews

[NCPanthersgurl]

Hahahahaha, the beginning was priceless! And sadly it's true there are tons of Harry/Malfoy fanfics.

My biggest suggestion; write a continuation =] Nice work!