So, umm, it's been a while.

So, umm, yeah.  I think it's been while, like, a really long while.  So, this is just going to be a really random blog, just as a fore-warning.  Quite a bit has happened since my last post: school let out, my brother graduated, I got a new laptop (yay!), and I made a resolution to finish my novel over the summer but that's not going very well because my mom's been working everyworking me and my brothers really hard trying to move (it's awful).  So, this is going to seem completely random but I'm sitting here watching The Proposal as I type this and I have some questions/thoughts: 1) Isn't Betty White amazing in just about everything?  2) What's Kevin's (the dog's) problem with Magrett? 3) Why does Ramone have, like three different jobs in the movie, it seems a little ridiculous? 4) And, finally, who takes up hallowing out a canoe as a hobby?

Okay, so my friend discovered these amazing books called The Emperor's Edge by Lindsay Buroker and they are absolutely amazing!  (She was kind of mad though because when she downloaded the first one  it wasn't free.)  They're about this past distopia where this girl, Amaranthe (there tends to be really, really weird names), is sent on a suicide mission ( if I told you the reason it wouldn't make any sense at all, I promise, my friend tried to tell me and I was thoroughly confused until I read the book) after this assassin, Sicarius,who is totally awesome.  When she's framed for treason and suddenly hunted all throughout the Empire she makes the one ally she can, the one she never thought she would: Sicarius, the infamous assassin.  Of course, she recruits a band of misfits to help her with her scheme of counterfeiting - but you'll never guess why - to save the emperor.  It's a great book and there are three more secceeded books so far and a fifth one coming in September.  One last great thing about these books is that the author, Lindsay Buroker, is self-published so she gets her books out really fast and she responds to the emails that you send her.  All three of my friends that read the books before me sent an email to her and she's responded personally.  She actually sent a personized, signed copy of the first book to one of my friends so that she could give it to my other friend, it was pretty awesome.

One little, tiny side note before I go on and display some poetry I was forced to write over the last two years (plus one I recited and pretty much describes my whole life).  Yet again I'm sitting in front of the television watching a movie while typing this (people keep turning on movies and then deserting me in front of them) and this time it's Atlantis and I just thinking how awesome it would be to be one of the people on that expedition, minus the insane leader person, of course.  I totally think I would stay though, who wouldn't, I mean, there's no polution, no wars and you get to live for thousands of years without the downside of normal life-longetivety stories of having to outlive everyone you know.

Okay, so this poem I wrote a little less than two years ago when I had this amazing teacher that I adore (she recently got married and it is so weird referring to her by a different name).  It was adapted from another poem that I completely forget the name and author of (oops).

The School

During the day,
In your town,
On a mountian,
Beyond the fence,
Surrounded by trees,
Out of the way,
Among the rumors,
Under the sun,
Near the truth,
Across the street,
Never accepted,
About the grounds,
Next to the wilderness,
Close to innocense,
Above the conspiracy
a school runs.

This poem is by Jack Prelutsky and I just think it's really funny and easy to relate to.

Today is Very Boring

Today is very boring,
it's a very boring day,
there is nothing much to look at,
 there is nothing much to say,
there's a peacock on my sneakers,
there's a penguin on my head,
there's a dormouse on my doorstep,
I am going back to bed.

Today is very boring,
it is boring through and through,
there is absolutely nothing
I think I want to do,
I see giants riding rhinos
and an ogre with a sword,
there's a dragon blowing smoke rings,
I am positively bored.

Today is very boring,
I can hardly help but yawn,
there's a flying saucer landing
in the middle of my front lawn,
a valcano just erupted
less than half a mile away
and I think I felt an earthquake,
it's a very boring day.

This one, I was forced to write, along with two others, for Valentine's Day this year.  I actually ended up liking this poem though.

Without You

Lonely amid a sea of people,
Without your laughing presence by my side
Cold in a hundred degrees,
Without your hand in mine

Sleepless on a cloud,
Without your last goodnight leaving me with a smile
Silent to my favorite song,
Without your spontaneous solos
Listless with a pen in my hand,
Without your brand of "encouragement"

Without you I don't know
Am I lost? 
Or am I stuck?
Hopeless amongst a sky of lights,
Without your shining eyes

I Lost My Password

I have a new blog!  Did you notice?  No?  You're too nice.  Why do I have a new blog, you ask.  What was wrong with the old one?  The very simple answer is I lost my password but because that's too simple for me I'm going to give you the long explanation.  So, I tried to get onto the blog, right?  Well, it asks for my username or email and my password.  I type in the email address I was using and the password I thought I was using.  They had this really cool graphic that shook the text box like someone would shake their head when they say no.  Must be a typ-o so I retype it and it does it and I sit there and laugh at the shaking box for a moment before saying, "Well, crap."  I type in my username and say forgot password like any other normal, sometimes sane person.  Now I'm saved and the password has been sent to my email.  Long story short on that: I really have no idea how to get into that email account because it isn't my normal email account and somehow something managed to get really wacked up and now I'm here.  On the brightside, this is Google and Google, like, runs the world, right along with Apple and Windows and whoever runs fanfiction even though it's free.  The above paragraph will probably be deleted in the next two weeks because the less people that know of my . . . . . umm, latest . . . . . . umm, descrepency the better.

Hello, World!  Welcome to The Repercussions of Being Me by Veronica Mitchell where you may be subjected to complaining about many things you can relate to and maybe some you can't, I make no promises on that matter.  I do, however, hope that no matter how much I complain you can find humor.  To those of you who are finding me through fanfiction I thank you very deeply and I do hope to get some of my work up on here as well.

Now, you may be wondering the point of this blog.  Well, join the club.  As far I'm concerned it could go from rant to poetry to putting up class work to back to ranting.  Speaking of class work (not that we were), as my first post to tell you something about me I was going to put up a poem that I wrote for class as soon as my teacher gave it back but she gave a grade but she didn't give us back the actual poem.  I was so pissed.  As I replacement I am posting a short story that I also had to write for class but it didn't turn out that bad.  It's not the best but it's the only short story I've written recently so here is Mischief.



Bonnie was seven when she and her family moved to Savannah Georgia and into the mansion-like house that had sat uninhabited for many years.  The green moss, gray siding and unkempt yard were intimidating to Bonnie’s twin brother, Brian, but to her it looked like an old castle bursting with adventure.

                Box by box they unpacked.  The twins went off to look for rooms – well, Bonnie went in search of the best room she could find with Brian decided to take the room next to one of their older brothers, Tom.  So explore she did; up and down the old wooden stairs, leaving footprints and handprints as she went along, walking through cobwebs, opening long ago faded curtains and finding a series of keys she was determined to reunite with their partners . . . later because Bonnie Blue Eyes was on the hunt for the best room in what she was beginning to think of as her castle.

                Far into the West Wing of her new home Bonnie found what she was looking for after walking through a series of cobweb infested, narrow back halls.  The room was twice the size of most she’d past with a bed guarded by navy curtains; deep cherry night stands stood at attention under a layer of dust an inch thick, the wooden floor was covered by a faded rug that would have looked cozy by the light of the fireplace and contrasted drastically with the cold white floor of the en suite where a claw footed tub stood proudly.

                What really drew the girl’s attention was the piece of paper that was seemingly stuck in the wall like a knife perfectly thrown.  The paper was yellowed with time but shined to Bonnie who gingerly walked over, as if thinking she would startle it if she moved too fast or made too much noise.  When she was within reaching distance she plucked it out as fast as she could, holding on tightly as if it would attempt to flee.  With a squeal of excitement she opened the long ago written note and read, to the best of her ability, the following:

To whoever is interesting or curious,

This is my room, a place where I spent many days and nights looking at the stars dreaming but, most importantly, where I wrote.  Not here exactly, of course, because it’s against too many rules.  Follow through my door to the tales untold and share what I could not.

                                                                                Forever Truly,

Sarah

                Bonnie, never one to refuse a plea so desperate, put her small fingers into the crack of the secret door and pulled slightly.  On surprisingly well-oiled hinges the door opened silently.  Inside was a simple room about a fourth the size of the bedroom, there was a quaint desk in the same dark cherry as the connecting room.  In the center of the room was the bookshelf, reaching the ceiling it was easily eight feet tall by about five feet across and there was no telling how deep it was because it was overflowing with leather bound journals, their blank spines a testimony to their originality and lonely existence.

                “Bonnie!  Oh, for crying out loud!  Of course she would wander all over the house and look at all fifty bedrooms before picking just one.  Bonnie!”  The young girls’ mother yelled as she walked past the bedroom door.  Bonnie ran after mother as fast as she could, carefully making sure to leave the secret door open.

                “Mom, wait up!”  The little girl yelled after the taller, older woman whose fiery red hair was so similar to her own.

                “Bonnie where have you been?  We’ve been looking everywhere for you!  You know, when said pick a room we kind of meant close to everyone else,” the woman said once the seven year old had caught up.

                The little girl looked away and murmured, “Well, I’ve been, umm, around.  And I - ”

                “Around where, little miss?”

                “Everywhere,” the suddenly shy girl mumbled.

                Her mother sighed, accustomed to her daughter’s curious, adventurous, absolutely exasperating behavior.  “Well, at least it explains how you managed to get all those spider webs in your hair.  Now, what did you find?  A room I hope.”

                 The freckled young girl nodded excitedly before grabbing her mother’s hand leading her back to the newly rediscovered room, Sarah’s room.  Releasing her mother’s hand, the little explorer went to the hidden room and held the panel for her mother, who stood in aghast bewilderment.  “Bonnie what . . . . ?  How . . . . . ?”

                Without a word the little girl with curly, red hair, freckles and kind, blue eyes held the letter, yellowed with age, containing the secrets of a girl long dead.  Slowly, heeding the fragile, weathered paper the older woman too and opened the letter; reading the words left by a girl with too many rules to follow and enough untold thoughts to fell the dozens of leather bound books she’d hidden.  Bonnie’s mother looked into the darkened room and looked past the dust, grime, cobwebs and time itself to see Sarah writing by candle light, seeing a girl with enough courage to write and enough sense to hide it.

                “Mama, will you read me one?”  Bonnie asked her mother.

                “Yes, Bonnie, we should read them and share them with the world like Sarah would’ve wanted.”  And they did

               

I hope you enjoyed it and hopefully I'll post again soon.

Good Night,

Veronica Mitchell