Scratch

seems interesting - but couldnt you have used a usb to transferit ?

<33

@veggie:
Yay^^
You know I just realized the MC of this has the same name as your NaNo novel *headdesk*
@ssss: Thankies 

Last edited by Wickimen (2012-02-20 00:50:17)

Lolol

By that I mean now I think of him as a mentally insane wanderer that doesn't quite understand anything yet everything atall at the same time.

I like it!

In the last sentence I'd say "that was smearing he goggles" instead

Wickimen wrote:

@Laternenpfahl: Thanks :^D Yeah, this was just a rough draft I'll be going over later. I agree, your way sounds better

Thanks 

Plz keep writing

Wickimen wrote:

Well, I'm sort of sneaking on my laptop while supposed to be asleep, so in the morning xD
A stupid plan I might add, I forgot to bring my charger with me
I have like 5 mins of battery left

Its 10:12 pm here. I'm on my ipod

Got maybe 1h of battery left

Wickimen wrote:

It's 10:12 here too
My parents don't understand the meaning of "weekends"
(I don't have school tomorrow)

Ikr

I think computer time should be limited to 4 hours a day, and you can't access it from 11pm to4am.

That would make sense.

^^Thanks 
Oh yeah, I've read that
I've had this idea for maybe a month now and the overall concept is pretty different though

After my post last night I was pretty much lying awake until midnight and then the door clicked and my dog started barking
So we thought there was like an ax murderer or something and we were up for another half hour
Causing me to lie awake for two more hours
Now after that good night's rest ( ) I got up at 7 and wrote some more, which I'll post soon

All right, chp 1 continued:

They pushed through the doors and walked in, their wet shoes clicking on the old hardwood floor. Dripping water from Eyre's soaked duffle coat collected a puddle on the ground. Inside, the library smelled strongly of dust and old paper. It was hard to believe that a little over half a century ago, many people had gone to libraries almost as frequently as they did.

Those books were the only window they had into how life used to be, before the disaster. Recalling his own old life was to Will like recalling the vaguest memories of somebody else's life. He couldn't remember anything past the age of eleven, or even if he had once been older than eleven, and his memories even then were very limited. Books were important; their names and knowledge came from books; but a book did not live forever, and Will and Eyre were careful to preserve them.

All of the books were important. Will liked Shakespeare's writing, and Eyre, Charlotte Bronte's, but they read them all. Sometimes they helped Will remember things from his old life. Strange, alien-sounding words, phrases, descriptions of both familiar and unfamiliar somehow connected in his mind. He had never in his current memory, for example, smelled cigarette smoke, but the word stirred something in his brain and allowed the ghost of a burning sensation to enter his nostrils. While reading a thick little brown volume by Jack London, another, more pleasant smell resurfaced: pine trees. It was associated with what he supposed was a happy day, mentioned in several books--a day called Christmas.

Even the dictionaries and encyclopedia had to be read; though they were considerably duller than most of the books, they contained by far the most knowledge. At the moment, Eyre was poring over a copy of the dictionary, and commented aloud occasionally about strange words starting with the letter q. She had unfastened her aviator's cap and goggles, and her close-cropped red hair stuck up haphazardly in all directions. Anybody could plainly see that her eyes were green.

Will didn't bother to warn her about being more careful. Besides them, nobody had entered the library for half a century. And why should they? Next to the Arcade, with all of its gleaming brilliance inside, a library was nothing. The Arcade was a paradise. You would play incredible games all day and there was no work or school to care about.

Being Unusuals, as was the popular, uncomplicated term, Will and Eyre were not allowed in the Arcade. In the beginning, when it wasn't such a big deal, they used to sneak in anyway with caps and sunglasses, but a third Unusual with whom they did not associate--his number was 16--was caught and turned in to the Sovereign's Administration. He was never seen again. After that they were more cautious.

They did not know where the other Unusuals went, or even if there were any other Unusuals. There had been at least ten others to begin with, but they had all gradually vanished throughout the years. Unusuals had simply been turned in for the crime of a strange eye color, without violating any other rule. Will and Eyre had gone unnoticed by the carefree Usual people, who did not know or care why the two of them no longer visited the Arcade. 13 and 29 were not missed.

Will found it funny, even after all this time, that everyone remembered everybody else's number. He knew that before, people must have remembered others' names, which, said the Administration, was very confusing. Some people had the same names. Names were dull and used; a number was unique. A number only applied to you.

That was true, thought Will, but somehow names seemed better and different in a way  he couldn't explain. The characters and authors in books never had numbers instead of names.

He settled himself into a musty, sloped chair with a copy of Hamlet and began to read. The words were magic in that old library. He was limited to the physical, emotional and mental capacity of an eleven-year-old, even one who lived in the library, and stumbled over a few gnarled, complicated sentences, but gradually was swept up in the story. He barely cared about the confusing parts; the story caught him within its pages like only the best authors could do. It allowed him to forget, for the time being, that the Sovereign had ever existed.

"Quid pro quo," Eyre called out, interrupting Will's reading.

"Interesting," said Will, though he felt a slight jab of frustration with her for cutting Hamlet short. "What's it mean?"

" 'One thing in return for another.' Cool."

"Yeah...," he said absentmindedly. Try as he might, he couldn't quite return to Shakespeare's play afterwards.

Pale light was seeping in through the shuttered windows, but the rain still fell thick and fast. Eyre extinguished the candle she had been reading by and shoved the remaining stub of wax deep into the pocket off her duffle coat. "It'll be eight o'clock soon. We should go."

"All right." Will closed his book and returned it to its proper place, a lonely shelf where paperback copies of Shakespeare's works rested. By accident he bumped the book against the back panel, which caved in too far and revealed a dark space behind. He froze. "Eyre?"

"What?" she said, glancing up.

"Look at this." He pushed on the panel with his finger. It fell down. Lying down inside were big flat glossy pages stapled together, like magazines but too big, like picture books but too thin. He pulled one out. "What's Franz Liszt?"

Eyre stepped closer to look at the booklets. "I don't know."

Will gingerly lifted a stack of them and flipped through one of them. He was greeted by a rustle of crackly yellow pages and rising dust. The pages were covered with interesting titles, lines and odd symbols. He didn't completely recognize them, but...

"Beethoven," said Eyre, reading aloud from the books. "Mozart."

The words struck him as familiar. Will thumbed through more pages. Once, Eyre had found another panel with old maps inside, but they hadn't discovered anything new for several years. He scrutinized the pages further and had a sudden mental image of long fingers--his own?--flying across black-and-white keys. Disjointed soft sounds floated through his mind. They were part of the same song, but he only remembered bits and pieces. Piano, he realized.

"It's sheet music."

Nice 

Please post more NAOW