The "Mock The Crap Serpentine Wrote In High School" Thread

[Serpentine]

I'm clearing out my computer at the moment, and came across some stuff from high school. And I'm pretty sure it's all terrible (I'm not totally sure, I can't bring myself to read any of it). Buuuut, thought I'd copy 'em here. Share the wuv.

Maybe I'll even redo some of them, if I can be bothered (and I think anything of quality can be salvaged)...

A Consummation Devoutly To Be Wished: I've described this one before, just because I got told off by the teacher for not spelling out the sex of the "author".

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A Consummation Devoutly to be Wished

Sunday, 17/06
Dear Diary,
I don’t know how long this’ll work. I’ve tried to keep a diary before, and I managed to get about three unintelligible, unfinished entries in the space of 6 months.
Dr Galnemos said I should try it again, that “It’ll be good for you to express your feelings in a suitable manner”. Well, I’m doing it. I hope she’s happy, though what, exactly, I’m supposed to be writing beats me. I suppose I could start with today, huh?
We’ve just gotten to this little redneck town. Uneeda. What sort of a name is that? I mean, really. Uneeda drink? Uneeda ****? Uneeda bullet to the head? What Uneeda really needs is more people. I mean, I’m not a big fan of cities. I like relatively small towns, like Armidale. Armidale was good. 22,000 people or thereabouts, perfect size. But a measly thousand, yes, one oh oh oh, 1000, that’s just ridiculous. I don’t know WHY mum wanted us to move here. She said it’s to get away from all the drugs. I didn’t bother telling her that when there’s nothing to do, you’ll do anything.
We got here yesterday. 24 hours ago. Already my mother, my industrious, neat mother has gotten everything in our this house in place, ordered and ship-shape. She is nothing if not efficient.
Sunday. Tomorrow’s Monday. First day in a redneck school in a redneck town called Uneeda.

Monday, 18/06
Well, the good news is, I was right. Or maybe it’s bad news, I forget, but either way, this school, this town, this LIFE is every bit as narrow-minded and redneck as I expected. People watched me wherever I went – on the bus from this pathetic little hobby farm, in the school yard, from the classrooms as I walked down the hall that was exactly the same as all the school buildings in all the other little redneck towns we saw on our way to Uneeda. I could hear them all watching me, feel their whispers and smell their disdain. All day they did it, when my “Home Group” teacher, Miss Sweet (can you believe it?) introduced me to the Home Group – at least she didn’t make me stand up in front of everyone and give them my life story. Maybe my mum warned her – they were doing it at “recess” and at lunch, and during all my classes and on the bus home. Only one person in the whole day talked to me without being forced to; this hobby farm we’ve got is the second last stop of the bus. This guy, Phillip, I think his name was, sat with his little possie on the back seat. Eventually, all his friends had gotten off, and it was just the three of us – him, me, and the bus driver. As I got up when we approached my stop, he hissed at me. I turned a bit, to show him I was listening, and he kinda half-whispered, “Welcome to Uneeda, Linden Thomas.”

Tuesday, 19/06
Can’t write much today. I’ve already got homework. Not much to tell, anyway. Just more of the same – stares, half-hearted, patronising attempts at conversation. Although I’ve noticed that Phillip isn’t so much of a whisperer and starer, and if I ever catch him looking at me, he smiles, or nods, something subtle and unnoticeable that his friends won’t notice. Better than looking away guiltily like everyone else. There’s another guy, Xavier Something, a loner-looking person, he doesn’t seem too scared of me either. Or maybe it’s just that he doesn’t have anyone to whisper to.

Saturday, 23/06
Missed a few days there. Not that there was anything to write, anyway, but I’m already starting to get overloaded with homework.
People are still scared of me, but they’re starting to go on an offensive. Nothing bullying, exactly, just a couple of jocks and bogans and bimbos making pathetic, half-arsed attempts at insulting my intelligence, my body or my reputation – not that I have one, yet. I’ve noticed that Phillip doesn’t join in quite as actively, although he doesn’t exactly discourage them and tends to laugh more often than not. On the way to and from home, before any of his possie get on and after they get off, he sometimes starts a distanced, benign conversation. These generally consist of something along the lines of:
“How’s stuff?”
“Not bad. How’s stuff with you?”
“Alright. (Touch of sarcasm/irony) Settling in nicely, are we?”
“(Not-so-subtle sarcasm/irony) Oh yes, everyone’s just been SOOO kind and open-armed”
Then he’d give an embarrassed sort of a grin, and we’d be at my stop, and we’d say bye, or see ya, or whatever. Still, at least he’s making an effort.
That other guy, Xavier J Daunahugh, we’re striking up a bit of a semi-conversational relationship. At the moment, we mostly just smile, or nod, or give each other sympathetic glances. Yesterday, though, after some particularly underhanded, nasty, subtle comments by a couple of “cool” girls (no-one’s as emotionally crippling as female teenagers sensing a threatening victim), he come up to me, put a note in my hand and walked off, without even looking back. Phillip noticed, and raised an eyebrow at me, but I just shrugged and went under one of the few sad, thirsty-looking trees read it. Ever noticed how the quietest people tend to notice the most? I’m telling you, Xavier’s in on some of the juiciest gossip I’ve ever come across. I’ll read it tonight, memorise it all, so I can fight back in this little game of theirs.

Wednesday, 27/06
I used one of those nice little facts Xavier gave me on Monday. One of the girls – Eliza-beth – came up to me and said loudly, “I heard that you and your mum drove your dad mental, so you had to leave before he killed youse.”
To which I replied, just as loudly, “I heard you had to get an abortion last year when Rick McCaloy knocked you up.”
Eliza-beth went crying off. Phillip caught my eye and shook his head and frowned a little, like he was disappointed in me. Can you believe that? Disappointed! In me! For sticking up for myself!!
Oh, well. I thanked Xavier later that day, and we started talking a bit more over the next few. This afternoon, before the buses came, he asked if I wanted to come to his birthday this weekend. I’ll ask mum in a minute, but I’m sure she won’t mind. It’ll be good for her to be alone; She wasn’t allowed to be alone for so long. I just have to think what to get him, and where to get it in this redneck back-water dump. I suppose I could always draw him a picture.

Friday, 29/06
Just a quick note before I go to school. I’m going home with Xavier on his bus this afternoon. I’ve packed all my clothes and whatnot that I’m gonna take in my “travelling bag”, just a little backpack I tend to take places. I did end up drawing a picture to give him – just a person in a cloak, with a hand sticking out from underneath clutching a dagger. All very dark and mysterious. I hope he likes it, but I suppose he could always chuck out the picture and just keep the frame.

Sunday, 01/07
I had fun at Xavier’s. It was just the two of us, but that suited both of us just fine.
Getting to his house wasn’t any problem. I had to give the bus driver a note, and he looked at me funny when I said where I was going, but there were no problems, no one to kick out of the seat next to Xavier’s. In fact, there was a noticeable shift away from us as we sat down.
His house was empty when we got there. I hadn’t bothered to tell mum that his dad was at a “conference” in Hawaii, and that his mum was on a “business trip” to Melbourne. He showed me around, introduced me to all his animals, told me where to put my stuff, and then brought out some green. We then proceeded to get thoroughly stoned (I didn’t tell him that it was my first time, but I was quite proud of myself for not coughing once). We mostly just sat around talking and playing his Playstation and Nintendo and computer and whatnot. We discovered a lot about each other over Spiro the Dragon, solved the problems of the world and of each other over Mario’s World and recited Shakespeare at each other over 007 – Goldeye; We discovered that we both love Macbeth and Hamlet, especially that “to be or not to be” bit.
He did say something really weird, though. He told me not to come to school next Monday. He wouldn’t tell me why, just that I had to chuck a sickie, break a leg, or just plain wag, but whatever I did, I couldn’t go to school of Monday. He was kinda scaring me, but it was probably just stoner talk.
Oh, yeah, he liked my picture. Or at least, he said he did.

Sunday, 15/07
Sorry I haven’t written for so long. Just the hospital, and the media, and even more therapists, psychologists and councillors than after dad went nuts, I kinda got a bit distracted.
I talked to Dr Galnemos again yesterday. She asked if I’d started a diary like she’d suggested, and when was the last entry I made. She suggested I get on and write everything down, while it was still fresh, before it had time to sink in and disappear like a nasty splinter. So, well, here goes.
Like I said, I dismissed that warning Xavier gave me as just stoner talk, but I was slow and distracted getting ready for school, so I missed the bus and mum had to drive me. I had her drop me off a block away and walked the rest of the way. I thought the school seemed weirdly quiet, but I figured it was just because of the positions of buildings and what-not. I started to get a bit freaked out when I got to the front of the building and it was still deadly silent. Then I heard a bang and a couple of screams. I should have called the cops, but no, I had to see what was going on. So. I went around the other side of the building. The first thing I saw was Stephanie Calohen. I could only tell it was her because of the ultra-mini skirt and charm bracelet; her head was nothing but a pulpy mess. I heard a hysterical whimper-scream, and looked up to see Xavier, standing there with the shotgun .22 he showed me at his birthday. As I watched, he went through the motions of discarding the empty shells and reloading the canister thing with practiced ease. Before anyone could gather the courage to approach, the gun was raised again, pointing at a year 10-er, Joseph. I yelled out to him as he squeezed the trigger, but it was too late. I watched, fascinated, as the bullet made a seemingly tiny hole in the boy’s forehead, then exploded out the back in a shower of bone and brains. He turned and looked at me, then. I realised that I had been believing, hoping, almost, that he had had a breakdown, that he’d gone murderous because of insanity, like dad did. I felt my internal organs lurch as I saw that his eyes were as lucid and steady as if he were working on a maths problem.
Xavier gave me a lopsided grin and a raised eyebrow, as if to say, “I warned you not to come, didn’t I? Well, it’s too late now.” What he did say, as he once again reloaded and raised the barrel, was “This one’s for you, Linden.”
Eliza-beth was standing within a few meters of me, frozen to the spot. Xavier was watching me, everyone else watching him, as I slowly moved in front of the panic-stricken girl. I know everyone chose to believe it was an act of selfless heroism, but the truth is, I just couldn’t handle the sort of guilt and responsibility that would have come with a murder on my account. I would rather die, probably would.
Xavier made no attempt to fire at either on us as he watched me move. He just smiled and shook his head bitterly. As I stood and faced him, as I stared into his eyes, I finally found the old familiar madness I had been looking for, as he registered what he perceived to be my betrayal. He raised the gun to his shoulder and looked down the site, taking aim at my left eye, but I refused to look away or shut my eyes.
So intense was our gaze that neither of us noticed Phillip come up behind him. All I remember is Xavier squeezing the trigger, a hand suddenly appearing between him and I, a flash of red, and I was out to the world.
When I woke up a few hours later, they explained what happened. Phillip had snuck up behind Xavier and put his hand over the barrel of the gun, shifting it a little to the left, just as he pulled the trigger. The bullet smashed through his hand, shattering two of the main bones in his hand – he’ll never have full use of his two middle fingers – then kept going, skimming of the side of my head, just scraping the bone. I’ll get a nice scar from it.
He killed 4 people; Stephanie and Joseph, of course, as well as a burly guy, Greg, who was known to be, shall we say, a little oblivious to the feelings and opinions of others, and a little year seven, Steve. He was the first to go. After Phillip grabbed the gun, a bunch of other people came up and wrestled Xavier to the ground. They weren’t exactly gentle with him – I heard they broke two fingers and his nose before the police arrived and dragged them off.
I went to visit him a few days ago. He’s at the Churlville Psychiatric Institute. He’d thought I was dead. I think I kinda freaked him out when I turned up. We didn’t talk much. We didn’t have a whole lot to say, and what we did say tended to somehow be both benign and disturbing for the both of us. I’ll keep on visiting, though.
They can’t figure out why he did it; his family was well off, Uneeda Secondary School had a good record with its bullying policy, and besides, Xavier was never a particularly small guy, and he never complained about anything.
I could tell them why, but they wouldn’t understand. They wouldn’t understand that someone to talk to, to hang out with, does not necessarily make a friendship, and Xavier didn’t even have that. He needed someone to understand; He needed someone who perhaps did not know all his good and bad qualities, but was willing to discover and forgive both; Someone to identify with the frustrations, the “heartache, and the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to”, if you will. He took arms against a sea of troubles, and released it all in an attempt to shuffle off this mortal coil.
I was too late to save Xavier. I wonder if Phillip is too late to save me.

Linden Thomas

Spoilery postscript:

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This was, indeed, written around the time of the Columbine Massacres. Cuz I's so original and stuff :B

Angelica Deville: If I recall correctly, the premise of this one was that we had to write a story based on a painting. I think my painting was The Girl With The Pearl Earring.
Gawd, the name is painful.

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Angelica Deville

It is approximately 12 trillion years since the planet “Earth” was created. The approximate time is also known as the 1950’s.
Angelica Deville perches upon the stool, a thoughtful expression on her face. The question plaguing her at this moment is, what to do now?
Over the eons she has annihilated hundreds of species of reptiles to make room for hundreds of species of mammals; caused entire islands to explode and form new land; Set feline against canine, then allowed the canines to have their go at the felines; and had countless dealings with both predator and prey. But Angelica’s favourite toys by far are the ones that call themselves Homo sapiens, Humans, and/or Man.
A confused, backward species, so certain of their superiority, assured of their reign over this tiny lump of rock. They arrived quite recently, nature’s latest little cruel experimental joke. In exchange for a brilliant mind, a grasp for logic and a thirst for answers other organisms tend to lack, evolution took away their physical prowess; exchanging tearing fangs and ripping claws for soft, blunt lumps of tooth and nail; dulling the senses until they perceive but the barest whisper of the world around them. Perhaps the greatest physical evolutionary joke of all is their general shape and form – big, blunt feet supporting a teetering body without so much as a tail to help balance the ridiculous configuration.
The only really useful part of their physical selves is nothing more dramatic than an opposable thumb, a freakish mutation that just so happened to be practical. This tiny abnormality, coupled with the “logical” brain has given this single species the opportunity to completely separate themselves from the natural order – they’re not even at the top of the food chain, but rather have formed their own link.
Why should this unnatural species be the focal point of the immortal Angelica Deville? Because, no matter what game she plays with them, she can’t lose; she inspires a piece of art, someone steals it. A charity is set up, and a member is corrupt. She convinces a government or company that money is more important than preventing pollution, and the majority of the people learn to appreciate the environment while it lasts.
Angelica’s greatest discovery was war; by turning one group of humans against another, or even against themselves, she can cause greater swathes of destruction and salvation than ever before – villains die and heroes are born, villains are born and heroes die. Humans kill humans, humans kill the world, humans kill themselves. Man’s only predator is himself; he is his own culler. And the best part of it is, they all find their own justifications! Angelica had started one a few decades past, and that caused yet another war that ended a couple of years ago, but which she has a feeling will have repercussions throughout histories yet to come.
Angelica Deville flutters her wings, stirring up a soft breeze. Her red skin is luminous in the dying rays of the sun, mirroring the crimson hue of the sky. As the last sliver of sun slips beyond the horizon and the first cold, glinting gems are unveiled in the heavens, an idea comes to her.
Angelica will introduce them to the universe.


She knew the telescope was a good idea.

Champion: I don't even remember what the premise of this one was. But I guess you guys can see how long I've had that name going?

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Champion

This transcript is typed from a cassette found in the “Ultra Mega-Tuff Voice Recorder 2000”which was itself found in a charred and smoking crater that, not long before, had been the house of one Serpentine Sinuous Shapechanger.

Click. Shuffling of papers and the scrape of a chair on floorboards.
Voice # 1 – Josephine McFallon-Smith – sharp, efficient and businesslike: The date is two days before the Spring Equinox, three hours prior to Vespers. Speaking is Marketplace Herald journalist, Josephine McFallon-Smith. I am chatting with elusive warrior, counsellor and advisor of great people, and, so I now discover, talented chef, Miss Serpentine Shapechanger. This poultry is delicious! But I can’t quite place the flavour…
Voice 2 – Serpentine S. Shapechanger – husky, slight lisp, generally speaks quite slowly and carefully unless excited: It is Emperor Penguin, with roasted bracket fungi and paddymelon on the side, smothered in newt-spit gravy.
Chink of a fork placed carefully on a plate
Josephine: Such exotic tastes… you picked these up during your travels?
Serpentine: More or less. Pretty much everything on this planet is eaten by something. I just incorporate this diversity into human cooking. Quite a pleasant peculiarity you people have.
Josephine: Indeed. Now, Miss Shapechanger, you entered the heroine business quite suddenly, with the dragon that was harassing Harrietville, a smallish town to the east.
Serpentine: That was just a simple misunderstanding; the last time she’d been there, this “Harrietville” had been a large clearing surrounded by tall, shielding trees, bordered by a clean stream – a perfect nesting place for a dragon of her size. How would you feel if you came back to your childhood home, deep in the forest, after a few centuries, planning to raise a family of your own, only to find that a bunch of smallish mammals had completely taken over the whole area and plonked their own little families all over the place? It’s not really all that surprising that she got a little freaked out. She was angry and scared, so she took out a few houses. As she’d flown a long way with barely a pause to rest her wings, she was exceedingly hungry, so she ate a few of the mammals that were running around the place. I must say I was quite appalled by the amount of fuss that last kicked up, especially seeing as most of those she ate were charging at her with lances and swords and pitchforks and whatnot.
Josephine: You obviously pushed these reservations aside and slayed the foul beast. The dragon has not been seen since you lured it away from the innocent villagers. That must have been a great and terrible battle.
Serpentine: Battle? Slayed it? Why would I do that? I wasn’t luring it; I was showing it the way to a far better nesting place. I don’t know where you get those silly ideas. Foul beast, indeed. And innocent villagers! I’d like to see that.
Josephine - hurried: Some suggest you are not such a new hero, and claim to have evidence from historic texts which implies that you have been around for centuries, possibly even millennia. They declare that, in fact, you were instrumental in the death of the ancient wizard, Domecius Demonward, and that it was you who released the demons and devils that were in his containment. They assert that this makes you not a hero, but a servant of evil. How would you respond to these malicious accusations, and to the ridiculous allegation as to your age?
Serpentine: The demons and devils certainly thought I was a hero.
Josephine: Pardon?
Serpentine: Neither demons nor devils are truly evil. Demons are simply stupid, and devils, selfish. As well as these vices, almost all of them are quite powerful. This significantly affects both their reputation and their attraction to poachers. Oh, if only you’d seen the conditions in which they were kept in that monster’s tower! Their cages consisted of almost anything available – pots, bottles, jars, anything – with not an ear to their wails of anguish or a thought as to how such captivity may affect their minds. Oh, for the record, I would recommend that no-one go near the tower. Many of the wretched creatures somehow became quite attached to it, especially those driven insane by their incarceration. They developed rather a distrust for humans, and tend to, well, kill them slowly when given the chance.
Josephine – doubtful: Indeed. Well, moving along, there have also been rumours that you have a brother, apparently as pale in colouring as you are dark. Tales have been circulated that he possesses the ability to change form at will, to any living creature he should choose.
Serpentine: I have never made any secret of my brother; it’s just that he tends to travel a lot at the moment. His name’s Sinuous Serpentine Shapechanger. I’ve also never made any secret of our shape shifting – it’s in our names, in fact. I’m having a bit of a holiday at the moment, working with you lot – you’re tame compared to the rest of the animal kingdom. I have a break maybe once every six hundred years. Keeps me more or less sane. Rather, more or less in control of my insanity.
Josephine: “In control of your insanity?”
Serpentine: Oh, yes. Hadn’t you noticed? I’m completely mad. My brother’s the sane one. He makes all the plans and tactics. I tend to just act on emotion without actually thinking. Yes, I’m quite insane.
Josephine – under her breath: Well that explains a lot.
– louder: I suppose you two make quite a team.
Serpentine: Certainly. We complement each other. Oh, wait; I think that’s him coming home now. He was just checking a nearby colony of dragons; apparently they’ve got some sort of cold or allergy or something. Makes them sneeze terribly.
A great, windy, thumping sound in the background, as of a swan taking off, multiplied by about four hundred.
Serpentine: Oh, dear. It seems he’s caught whatever those dragons have. You’d better… DUCK!!!
Josephine: What?
A great roar, followed by the sputtering of wood being incinerated and a thump as something large and heavy drops to the ground. Recorded sound suddenly crackles and is of far less quality than would normally be expected of an “Ultra Mega-Tuff Voice Recorder 2000”.
Serpentine: What a terrible waste. I really liked this house. That Josephine person was all right, too. Suppose I may as well turn this recordy-thingum off then. Did you figure out why the dragons keep sneezing, yet?
Click.

This one I actually did read. You might be able to consider it canon Serp-lore

Fairytale: I wroted a fairytale :3
Also, I have a really poor stock of names...

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Fairytale

“What are you doing to me?! Sometime in the not-too-distant future, I won’t be here to look after this kingdom, nor to coddle and spoil you. It’s high time you grew up, young lady!”
Princess Linden slammed her door and crumpled on her four-posted, gold-trimmed, silk-sheeted bed. She was exhausted; another unsubtle attempt to find a husband suitable for a princess, poorly disguised as yet another ball; another night of trying to be polite to naive, pimply-faced young lordlings and wrinkled, leering old aristocrats. Linden felt like a cow at a market, paraded around and sold to the highest bidder.
Linden knew she’d never be queen, and it was highly unlikely her husband would ever be king – she had two healthy, intelligent, wary older brothers, as well as one younger; the last solo-ruling queen was Sylvia, widowed young, two hundred years ago. Linden didn’t particularly want to be a queen, anyway. Especially, but not only, because of what it would take – the death of all three of her brothers.
She shuddered at that idea, but smiled at the thought of them. She and the second oldest, Donovan, didn’t really get on so well. He was too logical and thick-skinned for her liking, and she too emotional and compassionate for his. Still, they acknowledged and respected each other’s good points, and so there were no major arguments between the two. She rarely saw Quinn, the eldest of the four and future king; he was always off somewhere, representing their father in one urgent matter or another, or “meeting the people” or whatever. It was Brendan, the youngest, whom she got along with best. All the other girls her age were noble-bred, noble-born and noble-trained to toady up to royalty. All the boys were noble-bred, noble-born and noble-trained to woo her into a marriage. Brendan, just a year younger, had a similar problem, vice-versa, and so he and Linden tended to be each other’s friend.
Their father had recently noticed this inclination towards solitude. In an attempt to force them out into the open, he had steadily increased the intensity of Brendan’s weapons-training and of Linden’s parading for the bidders.
Which brought her back to her current predicament. Linden knew she was getting on her father’s nerves, that he thought she was being deliberately difficult. She also knew she would go mad or kill herself, or both, if she was forced into a life-long commitment with any one of the so-called “men” that so tried to cajole her. She knew they only tried so hard for the prestige and wealth that would come with a royal wife, not because they truly cared for who she was, certainly not because of what she was like – Linden was the opposite of everything a princess is supposed to be; where a princess is small, quaint and dainty, Linden was tall, heavy and clumsy. Instead of pale skin, blue eyes and ringlets of hair the colour of liquid gold, Linden had rich brown eyes, skin tanned by escapes into the surrounding forests and dead straight hair as black as ebony. Princesses were supposed to sit on padded chairs in front of fires embroidering little angels and unicorns waiting for their prince to return to them. Linden secretly had Brendan teach her everything he learnt in his training. Hardly princess material.
Reaching under the bed, Linden pulled out the heavy volume she kept there. She didn’t like hiding things from her father, but she knew that if he came across the well-thumbed book he would take it away from her, with the excuse that such a fine work belonged in the Library. The ancient leather creaked as she pulled back the cover and flipped to her favourite story, the one about the princess with hair long enough to hang to base of the door-less tower she was kept in, strong enough to carry the weight of a fully-grown man. Linden enjoyed it so much because she knew the tale would have been so much better if it had been her in the tower. She wouldn’t have waited for some smelly little princeling to come rescue her; oh no, Linden would have chopped her hair off, herself, as soon as it was long enough, and made her own ladder with which to escape. She liked to laugh at the Damsel in Distress, at her stupidity and apathy. It reminded her to be glad she wasn’t just another pale, submissive little princess like she was supposed to be. And yet, as she gazed upon the delicate little painting in the book, of the prince, one hand wrapped around a thick lock of yellow-gold hair, the other reaching out to touch the fair face of the princess, leaning in for the first kiss, Linden couldn’t stop a sigh escape her lips.
The book closed with a heavy thud. Linden shoved it angrily under the bed and rose to pace up and down the length of her chambers, eventually halting in front of the large window. She glared out at the dark forests, to which she had not been able to escape for months. Linden watched a hovering hawk for a while and, as it plunged towards the thick branches of the treetops and some doomed little animal, she came to a decision.

Two days later, rays of warm spring sunlight trickled down through the blanketing canopy to scatter across the soft litter of the forest floor. As she guided her horse, Moonmane, along the steadily thinning trail, Linden pursed her lips and whistled one of the bawdy war songs the soldiers taught her behind her father’s back.

Oz: I think I remember this one. We had to write a poem called/based on "I am Australia". It was meant to be all patriotic and crap, and I thought the whole premise was dumb. Also I was all teen-activist wannabe philosopher stuff.
This one has a bunch of formatting font stuff that supes emphasises it, but eh.

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[CENTER]Oz
I cannot declare that I am Australia.
That would suggest I believe myself to be
Eternal as mountains
Vast as deserts
Shadowy as rainforests
Green as meadows
Pure as the sky and
Alive as all the creatures who
Have accepted and
Been accepted into the land.
I will not declare myself Australian
For that is an idea brought with
Teeming humanity when they
Skulked above the heads of kraken and mermaids
With their “criminals”, “convicts” and scum
To discover a place as yet mostly untouched
And seemingly untouchable;
Much too good for these leftover morsels of people.
Here they colonised,
Made it tame and “civilised”
Bred until there were
Pink bald awkward backward baffling tailess
Homo sapiens squirming around in
Every spare piece of “Australia” –
Except the parts Unsuitable and
Unkind to there
Delicate demeanour.
It is these latter places they dumped their
Wastes and rubbish,
And conducted their “Scientific
Experiments”
And were surprised,
Though by no apparent means alarmed
When entire ecosystems
That had been in place since
Long before humans even lost their tails
Suddenly collapsed.
Those not busy razing the land
They had no right to even tread upon
Were otherwise occupied in keeping down the
Population of their own species –
No one they know, of course.
The humans self-stylised as
Australian became people of
Lust, greed, envy, vanity, gluttony, laziness, hate,
Globalisation, Americanisation, self-destruction,
Stupidity, ignorance, revenge and war.
I want nothing to do with humanity.
Yet as much as I want to,
I cannot escape it.
So I will sit on the sidelines.
Observe the Great Happenings,
Contemplate as History is made.
And look for the small kindnesses,
The sparks of beauty in a barbarian species,
Lie back in the red soil,
Gaze up at the cloudless blue
And look
And feel
And want
And be.

Life in the Snake Hole: We had to write something about what it's like in high school, high school culture, something like that. I'm kinda bitchy.
Side-note: "researching" the topic, one of the "cool kids" asked my friend and I in another class what we thought of "people like them". We sorta looked at each other and went "uuuuh... We think you're... cool, I guess". We failed to inform her that "cool" was not intended as a compliment.

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Life in the Snake Hole

Nestled in amongst the hills, on the shore of a large artificial lake, there dwells a curious species of reptile.
This unusual creature dwells in a kind of burrow-like structure, sometimes sharing it with up to seven others, usually relatives or mates.
During the day the young snakelets travel to a certain place where numerous dark coming-of-age rituals take place, and where the adult snakes pass on the knowledge the little ones will need to survive in their deadly snake-eat-snake world. This place is commonly known as “School”.
The first of the rituals is the “Splitting Into Groups.” During this, the young serpents separate into Groups. These are determined by behavior, physical features, physical prowess, relative intelligence etc. For example, the “Cool Group,” the ‘nobility’ of the young reptiles, possess highly polished scales, all of a certain color and sheen. Like the human nobility, many of these often believe they are better than the others. This, of course, does not necessarily make it so. They are often relatively physically attractive and/or active, and are discouraged from crossbreeding with other Groups.
There are also the Homies, Wannabes, Tryhards, Squares, Downball Deadbeats, Library Snakes, Druggies and Loners – those who do not really belong to any specific Group and don’t particularly want to, thus creating their own Group. Those serpents that do not quite fit into any established factions are generally labeled as Freaks.
These Groups do not always have strict borders. The circles may have blurred edges, allowing some of their members to associate with others, not of their kind. This is especially, though not solely, true of the “lower” Groups.
Some only survive by taking advantage of this, ducking in and out of factions, perhaps leading all to believe they are one of theirs. Out of School, this order may break down to be nearly non-existent, although it will hold through to some extent.
One reason many of those serpents in the “higher” Groups are relatively fit is because most of the reptilian population revolves around a peculiar religion called “Aussie Rules.” Throughout the year, small insignificant cults weave in and out of the society, until winter, when the Aussie Rules zealots come out in force. Those who do not follow the faith have two options: mimic the fanatics, joining in appropriately, gathering information etc. which may or may not result in conversion, or refuse to have anything to do with the whole thing, which may or may not result in expulsion from the society.
This peculiar species of snake has several means of self-defense against each other, including sharp teeth, a wicked tongue and shimmering scales which blind an enemy to it’s vicious nature, and also keeps others from getting too close.
If the scales do not work, a snake will generally attempt to frighten the offender off by hissing menacingly, flicking the foul tongue insultingly. Normally they will only resort to biting if one uses it’s tongue too well, in which case the other might lose it’s temper and attack.
As with nearly all vertebrates, these snakes play-fight, mock hissing or snapping frolicsomely, yet even these can result in, say, exile from a Group, but these are usually temporary.

That is life in the Snake Hole.

Madman's Lullaby: I think this was a "free creative writing" type thing, but I can't really remember. I do remember that I made a concious decision to stay up late 'til I was really tired and then just write out whatever came to mind. I know it's dumb, but dammit, I still kinda like it.

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Madman’s Lullaby

To be infinite is merely to exist. To be. A moment; nothing more, nothing less. That is all there is. There is no future, no past. How can anything be that is not now?
Have you ever returned the stare of a cat? Ever focused all your attention on that intense, yellow gaze? Follow his lines, from the quivering tips of his whiskers, along the delicately angled head, down the sinuous back and tail. Return your eyes to his, and share a slow, feline blink.
Open your eyes, look up to the sky and see the lonely emptiness. Barren, nothing but space, into the incomprehensible infinite, occasionally marred by a ball of gas, of rock, or of fire. Impossible explosions rock the desolation from time to time, but there is little out here to hear the deafening bellow of a star in its death-throes. Follow the light cast off by the dying monolith back to the beginning. See it again; see the glow of a star, dead a thousand years, still to burn on for a thousand more – in our heavens, at least.
A shooting star streaks across the dark, perhaps some small fragment from the ruined solar system, hurtled through the empty nothingness. There is an instantaneous flare as the leftover morsel of planet is consumed by the heat of its own entry into the atmosphere of our own pathetic little pebble.
Skim one with me now; flick your wrist and send a smooth, flat stone bounding over the shaded crystal waters. The scent of daffodils whispers past your nose, accompanied by the cautious chatters of small beasts hidden in the thriving undergrowth. Isolate a sound; follow it to its source. Push aside the slippery-smooth waxy leaves, away from the crunching just died away. There is a dead thing there, a rotting mass of half-chewed bones and putrid flesh loosely covered with a scattering of fur. Prod it with your finger, feel the soft fuzz disintegrate at your touch to release a stinking cloud of gas and flies. Follow their flight up, out of the undergrowth to be snatched up by a darting willy-wag-tail. He perches on a little twig, some distance above and away from you. He wags his black tail, turns his bright black eye to yours and gives an odd little bow, then flits off after some more of your flies.
An eagle hangs stationary in the cloudless blue, scowling at you with her fierce golden glare. With a slight twist to her feathers, she veers away. Soar with her, feel the wind over your wings and listen to it whistle past your ears. Stoop and wheel and dive in the sheer joy of existence. Peek into the distant windows of a towering city as though you were sitting on the windowsill.
There is a girl in one of them, on the cusp of womanhood. She stands before of a full-length mirror, staring at the shrivelled sacks of her breasts, the xylophone ribcage. She has eaten three bites of pasta tonight. She only ate that much because her parents had been staring at her while she did it. Turning her back on the wraith in the glass, she drifts into her ensuite. She crouches over the toilet, the porcelain icy beneath her gaunt fingers. As she forces the three bites out of her guts, into her mouth, she feels something tear deep inside of her. She gags, choking on the meagre contents of her stomach. Feel her panic. Experience the enveloping calmness, the stabbing pain as her heart stops. Look into her eyes as she slips onto the tiled floor. See, they are quiet now. No more pain. No more hate. No more. It is a consummation devoutly to be wished.
Glass smashes, outside, on the street. A car alarm sounds, ripping through the tranquillity with its monotone wailing. A prostitute greets us, a crimson gash against the dead grey stone. A warm, empty leer is frozen to her face, even before she looks into our eyes. Give her a wink and twenty dollars to buy some McDonalds for her son. He is at home, getting babysat by his aunt. She doesn’t know what her sister does. Neither does the scarlet whore.
A dirty brown alley cat heaves herself out of a dumpster. She scuttles away as you approach, but pauses, mid-flight, to turn back to you, to meet your eyes with her own yellow orbs. With a flick of her scrawny tail, she indicates to you to follow. Shadows stir and murmur as you pass, but none approach. They lie, lingering gloom in the acrid stink of rubbish, waiting for different prey to go by.
You turn your head to follow the passage of a pretty little girl in a ruby frock, out of place amongst all this dismal grey stone. With a darting glance back at you and a familiar tepid leer, she dissolves into shadow and mist. Swing your eyes back to the cat. She has gone, disappeared into the night. Just like everything else. You are alone. Empty as the void around you. Not even darkness surrounds you. This must be what the blind see.
Turn around. I am here. I am all you need to see. Look into my eyes, gaze into my abyss, and allow me to gaze into yours. Sink into the depths of my insanity.
Be still.
Be quiet.
I am here.
I exist.
We exist.
Together.
Forever.
For eternity.
Our infinite moment.

The Game - Prologue: This one wasn't for high school. It was a hypothetical prologue for a theoretical series of books I imagined writing someday.

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The Game
Prologue

High above the World, two Elementals sit down to a Game.
Perhaps I should revise that sentence. When I say “above the World”, I don’t mean “up in the clouds”, or even “among the stars”. The easiest way to explain the place they are is… it is a sort of a higher plane, an alternate Universe, if you will. Now this “Universe” isn’t exactly Somewhere Else, but rather Everywhere At Once. It sort of shares the space also occupied by the World.
The Elementals could also be called Supreme Beings. They are not Gods – the Gods were formed from the Elementals’ condensed breath, then created the World with its Natural Laws and mortal creatures in a similar fashion. However, where the Gods quite often have direct, or near direct, involvement in the lives of their creations, the Elementals generally ignore everything but other Beings.
In fact, the closest the Elementals come to meddling is the Game these two have begun. In its appearance – layout, board, pieces etc. – it is similar to a game played by one of the Gods’ creations, Humans, commonly known as Chess (the game, not Humans).
The Rules for the Game, however, are far too complicated for any mortals, or even Gods, to so much as comprehend. The moves, strengths and limitation of each piece are equally incomprehensible, so I will not even try to explain them to you, dear child.
Another difference between the Humans’ Chess and the Elementals’ Game is the pieces; In Chess, each side’s “Men” are either Black or White. In the Game, however, each is flecked with a little of the other: the white pieces have little bits of black all over them, some with more than others, building up until there is one piece – the equivalent of a Pawn – nearly completely black with a white background, and another – analogous to the King – almost completely white, with but a small fleck of black over its left ear, and vice-versa for the black side.
Another key difference between the two Games is the species of the “Men” – unlike that of the narrow-minded Humans, this Game’s figures are of several different creatures, including a dragon Knight, two rabbit Pawns, a fairy Bishop, a bear Rook, a demon King and a kitsune Queen.
The Elementals’ Game has been going on for some time – I will not even attempt to convert it to the Worldly equivalent. Suffice to say it may have been generations, or days, or both. Anyway, most of the pieces on each side have been moved, put in their tactical positions in preparation for the few on each side that have yet to be used.
Black was the last to move. Now White reaches forward and picks up a little black-poxed dragon…

The Warning: The theme was horror. *shrug*

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The Warning
My mate Phil was a wimp
The wimpiest wimp there was.
That could have been ‘cause he was a shrimp,
Or prawn for we in Oz.

He had this annoying habit
Of bragging about his brawn
But when his nerve was tested
He’d go and hide in the corn!

Unfortunately, last year
There was an accident in the field-
One of the hired help
Was run over, and killed.

Phil lied, said he’d been there,
And there’d been guts all around
But it was the bloke’s head that was hit,
And brains on the ground.

My brother and I decided to get him
For this disrespectful sham -
Nevermore would he tell untruths
About any unlucky guy or dam.

Our plan came into action
A few days after the fib.
Phil reckoned he could do anything
That our grandfather did.

Unbeknownst to him, that day
Granddad was painting the barn roof.
As soon as my bud saw this
He was off, the goof.

My brother and I were faster,
Anyway, we had the bikes,
So we got to the cornfield quicker
While he had to hike.

When he was “safe” in the paddock,
We hid between him and the shed,
And while he sat there moping
We made enough noise to wake the dead.

And so we drove him
Closer in, towards the site
Where that bloke met his end
That horrible night.

The area was cleared
To aid investigation.
That’s where we drove Phil
For his interrogation.

Until we got there
We were making a din,
But there went dead silent
So you could hear a pin.

Phil stopped right in the middle
Of the little clearing.
Sam and I stepped forward
To announce his hearing.

Dressed all in black
We stood side by side.
Phil wore a look of relief
On his ugly hide.

His expression changed
As Sam began to speak –
“You have lied, Phil Cody,
An untruth for the weak.”

Sam continued his speech
“All truth is a lie,” then he
Proceeded to say
“All lies will be”

While Phil was staring
Transfixedly at Sam
I walked ‘round behind him
And grabbed his hands.

He started to scream
But I covered his mouth -
It wouldn’t do to be heard
By the farm to the south.

He squirmed and tried
To get out of my grip
But I’m strong for a girl,
He just made his shirt rip.

While I held him
Sam took a sledgehammer,
Aimed it squarely
And hit Phil a slammer.

The next day a workman
Came screaming from the grain.
He’d found a dead body,
Guts lying in the rain.

Scharamuche: Yeah, that's a misspelling of the Queen thing. We had to make up a creature. Later we put it in a story, but I'm not sure whether I have an electronic version of that. If you all ask reeeeaaaaaal nice, maybe I'll type it up for you from my hardcopy

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Scharamouche

The Scharamouche is a vicious, ugly creature that lives in the deepest parts of the Sunny-Swamps in the West where there are deep hidden pools where an unwary creature could tumble in, never to be seen again, unless by a Scharamouche which feeds on the bloated bodies of the unfortunate victim. If the animal does not die quick enough, the Scharamouche will pull it under with its ten strong tentacles and eat it before it ceases to struggle. Should an animal appear to be taking care not to slip into the deadly ponds, the Scharamouche will crawl out of the water and weaken the creature with its acidic breath if it is large. It will then attack the poor animal with its serpent-like and scorpion-tail-like growths on the top of its head which bite and sting or impales it with the pair of unicorn-horn-like horns, situated on its forehead then it grabs the animal firmly with its blue-ringed and bluish-tinged-tooth-filled mouth and drags it back to its lair.
On the Scharamouches’ back there are a pair of scaled wings which allow it to swim faster and catch birds that hang around too long.
Its eyes have three layers, one for night vision, one for underwater and one for normal. This makes it look much like a clown.
This strange creature has very good camouflage. Depending on where it lives, the Scharamouche can be black and very dark green with a few splashes of color or swirling aqua and turquoise with darker blotches and stripes.

edit: Holy crap it's too big for one post. Well, see the crappy conclusion below.

[Serpentine]

Cont.:

Worldville: I don't even remember writing this one, but my goodness it's wanky.

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Worldville

The planet Earth is a small, isolated country town. Its population consists of closely-knit families, each with their own house. Some houses are large, yet contain a fairly small family. Others, like that of the Japanese, are far too small to contain the large family it does.
Sometimes, when the family becomes too large for the home, they start to arrange marriages with other families whose houses are a little too large. The Britains are about the largest family, and have made several arranged marriages with people such as neighbours, North and South Americans, the Australians, and a couple of families in the Africa district.
Earth, like any country town, has its occasional disturbances and scuffles; several families have deeply trenched, old quarrels with each other, but these only occasionally come to confrontation. Twice, nearly the whole town was involved in a riot, and some families are still reeling from the effects of that. Although the general consensus is that the causes of the riots were very complicated, too complicated to explain, I tend to believe that no-one really knows what happened.
Also like any town, every family in Earth has its own problems, although some, most especially those in the Africa district, have more serious problems than others. Some of the wealthier families ease their consciences by donating some food or money to these unfortunates, but few, often those not so well off themselves, are willing to take any of the “rabble” into their own homes when, for example, a house burns down, or a family member is abused.
Earth is but a small country town. A few of its more adventurous residents have gone for picnics and whatnot in the surrounding area, but as of yet, no-one has ventured out to any of the other villages, towns and cities around them. Let us hope they do not still carry all the old grudges and loyalties when they do.

And there we have it. Have at ye!

[Morph Bark]

Well at least I'll be having some reading material this Christmas.

Will Scharamuche do the fandango?

[Serpentine]

Does "attempting to drown the heroinne" count as the fandango?

[Morph Bark]

Depending on the kind of fandango music played, it might even be very appropriate to such a scene.

[The Succubus]

Ooooo - I like the horror-themed poem. The light & jovial words juxtapose quite nicely with the grisly theme of it. After all, it's all fun and games until someone gets pounded with a sledgehammer.

[Pokonic]

Skimmed them a bit. Stopped around Angelica Deville. Interesting. Now I have something to read now that I finished "Mockingjay".

[Eleanor_Rigby]

Would love to read and crit this, Serp, but I'm meant to be staying off GitP for a bit. Would you mind PMing it to me? I might not have time to actually do anything with it, but I'm really curious.

[Omeganaut]

These are all good enough starts for full stories, except of course for the poems, which are fine as is. Even the paragraphs meant as description could be turned into a story as your creatures are fleshed out well.

The first story could use some more background on the main character, as I can see the therapist telling her to write down why she feels the way she does and why her life is the way it is. This way you can spread out the background, giving the readers something besides just the plot to look forwards to.

The second one is a nice little tidbit, but this is the one I see being least publishable/expandable. Not that its bad, just that I have trouble seeing where it would go and how it would improve the reader's experience.

The third one is really neat. Perhaps you can continue as a series of news clippings on the lives of the Shapeshifter siblings. It could even be assembled by a character that interacts with the reader as well, giving yet another perspective on the odd duo.

Fairytale: I have to say, this one struck me as most unoriginal, whether or not that is actually true. Its just that recently there have been a spate of books fighting the video-media about self-image and what constitutes an attractive body. There are so many books about head-strong, determined princesses in un-princessy bodies or with other flaws that go on adventures, seek their fortunes, and find love and/or happiness. What I'm trying to say is, if you want to complete this, you will have to add more non-tropes to the story and make it unique in other ways.

The Australia poem is really good. I totally understand your perspective, and it really describes it well and with great imagery.

Snake Hole was perhaps to blunt, and could use another layer of subtlety. I feel like the cliques are being shoved in my face rather than explored and critiqued.

Madman's lullaby may not be good as a stand-alone, but could easily fit into any story with insanity in it.

The Game: Sounds like a good start. I'd take a look at Terry Pratchett's The Color of Magic, as he does a great job of intertwining a perfectly good narrative with that kind of game, although his gods are anthropomorphic.

The Warning; Good, good.

Scharamuche: Nice beastiery entry there.

Worldville: Much like Snake hole, a little too blunt. Could be combined with Angelica Deville.

If you want anyhting more specific, tell us exactly what you are concerned about.

[Serpentine]

Whoa, actual critique o.O
I'm not worried about anything. These are all about 10 years old now. Just thought I'd put 'em up for amusement, pretty much.

Eleanor: mmmmaybe. I'll see. Busy at the moment, though.