User:Nickii890

So, I suppose this is where I put stuff about me? Okay, whatever. I'm an author. I love anything that has to do with words (yes, that includes talking) and happiness (laughing and joking around are just a few of my pass-times). I suppose there's a lot I have to learn, seeing as I'm only 13, but... you know, who cares about age? I don't. I'm not as fond of anime or manga as I am of the Discovery Channel or novels, but it's cool being able to have something to toy with in my mind (I am an author, after all!). Here's the beginning of one of my books, the sequel to the other one, titled Murmurs at Midnight.

I feel my heart pounding in my chest like a drum beat too hard. I’ve always been afraid of being buried alive, but that’s really easy to avoid, unless I dream about it. But now… now, I really lay in a box—a coffin—under what I’d guess to be six feet of dirt. I can feel my oxygen thinning already. No, no, no, no! This can’t be real! My mind races to find a solution to my problem, but I know I can’t get out of this one. I’m a daredevil, but this is different. This time, I wasn’t willing. This wasn’t a dare, like I used to take as a kid. This was a murder attempt that’s probably going to succeed. That will succeed. No one got the chance to talk me out of this one before I was shoved into a potato sack and knocked out. Talk about cliché. I try to relax, to not hyperventilate, but it’s hard. Wouldn’t it be, if you were the one trapped in a box six feet under soil? I can faintly hear a pounding coming from high above me, like screaming deep underwater. I don’t call for help, since that would waste my precious supply of oxygen that I need desperately to survive. This isn’t really how I planned on dying. I planned on a happy death, in my sleep, of old age or whatever. But instead, I get shoved into a box more than sixty years early. And you thought getting homework on a break or on the weekends was brutal and unfair. There’s another thump, and then another. What’s with this? Why can’t these idiots let me die in peace, if I have to die at all? I love my life, my friends—more like my family, my adventures… I’ve been on adventures, right? I swear I have. I vaguely recall blurry images of dragons… or was that a movie I saw? What’s happening to my mind? Didn’t someone teach me something about blocking… something? Suddenly, a sliver of light as thin as the side of a paper and about three inches long penetrates the darkness like a bullet through skin. Not a simile I’m fond of. I squint, my eyes already adjusted to the pitch-blackness. I wish the light would go away, even if it were my way to Heaven. I might just rather lay here in the dark forever. Its calming, peaceful aura seems… tempting. Hungry. For me. For my soul. More light seeps in. I growl, covering my eyes and squeezing them shut. Again, why can’t I be left to die in peace? Yet, more light comes and floods my casket. A silhouette blocks some of the light, but not all. That irritates me. I growl again, but I involuntarily suck in the fresh air in gasps and heaves. I didn’t know I was that low on air, but who cares? This only postponing what I really want. “Is it what you want, Serene? To die in a box, half buried?” a voice murmurs. “Yes, now go away and let me die in peace. Please,” I add, hoping manners will make him go away chuckling like they do with my parents, normally. “I won’t be having any of that,” he whispers, gently sliding his arms under my knees and my back and lifting me up. I struggle in his grip, since the casket was actually comfortable with little cushions of velvet. “Let me go… I just want to die!” “You already were dead, Serene. You should know; it is your body. I’m pretty sure you’ve been gone for about… oh, I’d say three years or so. Times a hundred.” I think I can hear the smirk in his voice. “It hasn’t been three hundred years,” I say firmly, attempting again to get out of his arms. He holds me tight, though, and I find that creepily reposing. “Yes, it has.” “I would be dead if I’d been in that box for three hundred years. Decayed.” “Maybe you were.” I freeze in my struggling. What if this mystery guy’s right? What if I was dead, and I was brought back to life or something? But why would someone want to kill me? What person has a reason to want me dead? I’m becoming aware of bands around my wrists. I glance down. Bandages. Tight, white bandages. Why? What happened to me? “Serene,” the guy says in an undertone, “I hate to be the one to break it to you, but you really have been dead for two hundred years and eleven months of those three hundred years that you’ve been missing for. You’ve been awake for about four days.” Four days? It didn’t even feel like four hours. “Who the heck are you?” I hiss. “I,” he says proudly, “am Antonio. Call me Tony. I think we’ve met before.” I fight to escape his hold. He holds me, unyielding. I fight and struggle and scramble, but he just chuckles. “This isn’t how I expected you to react to your savior.” My savior. Why does that sound familiar, but painful? Why can’t I remember the years before I disappeared? Where did my memory go? I quit my scrabble with Antonio and shift it to my mind. I fight through the haze, and it suddenly becomes clear, for just a moment.

I shivered and trudged through the field. This is where someone told me to go, right? Whom, though? And why? What’s so good about a field of dying clovers? A shadow moved at the edge of the meadow. Some random sixth sense kicks in, and I ran. I risked a peek over my shoulder when I reached the rim of the clovers. The shadow was now the shape of an oversized man, and he was chasing me. A white fabric trailed from his wrists, ankles, and his neck. I resisted the urge to keep running, and I spun on my heel and held out the heels of my hands. I was the only Sorceress powerful enough to use her hands during the Spellcasting, right? The man-thing froze, as if I looked menacing with my short, pitch-black hair with blue bangs and my sapphire eyes reflecting the super-faint moonlight. This wasn’t like any training, this was the real thing. This was what I trained for all along. I shuddered, breathing in deeply and releasing huge bolts of deep purple, smoldering power. He absorbed it. Great job, idiot! I thought. He’s a Dark One! Why didn’t you figure that out by the shadow he appeared as? I tried again, this time with the other strong side of me. Why can’t I remember what that is? He pitched forward and landed face-first on the ground, but he got up almost right away. He was at my side in less than an instant. He latched meaty hands on my throat, wrapping something silk-like around it, along with around my wrists. He lifted me up and wrapped it around my ankles, too. It reminded me of when they put tags on creatures at the zoo, claiming them, almost. The man then punches my chest, too hard to be human, and I collapsed onto the waning clovers, my eyes fluttering quickly before closing. They don’t open.