15 days, 23,000 words, and my authoress has writer's block. It's a very sad and puzzling thing to see, since this is her first foray outside of Sarconia, and I have no idea how to assist her.
But it could be the fact that Themeless is tearing his hair out in frustration over Thelred.
Or the fact that Thelred is spending over half of his time in her brain bragging about how amazing he is and driving all of the rest of us characters mad.
And perhaps it's because the last 22,000 words ate her brain.
Who knows?
Any suggestions on how I might jog her mind?

This is a work of fiction. I was listening to Moonlight Sonata and it just....came. So I hope you enjoy it.

      I don’t know what brought me to visit the old burned out shell of a warehouse that day, but it changed my life more than I can even begin to tell you.
But when I reached the deteriorating structure, I only vaguely remembered getting there. For a moment I puzzled over why I was there, however, the moment I heard strains of the most heartbreakingly beautiful music drifting from one of the back rooms, I knew. I began to shake and fear urged me to run, but the soft melody pulled me in closer and closer as if the notes themselves were animating my body. When I saw him, something inside me broke, and tears began sliding down my face. Though I had never seen him before in my life, he was dear to me; the exotic refrain resonating from the oddly preserved grand piano he sat at washed through my being, making me feel as if I’d known him my whole life; that beautiful street urchin.
I stood there in complete silence as the last measure dissolved into the dusty air, tears dried on my face, watching him in hushed, sorrowful awe.
Suddenly, he looked up and noticed me, shock and embarrassment frozen on his face. He cautiously moved towards me, one hand reaching up to my face, as if he were about to brush my tears away. He looked to be about nine years old, ash and dried blood caked on his face and matted in his hair. But his hands were clean, as if he hated the thought of dirtying those beautiful white keys he had been lovingly caressing just moments before. I also noticed his eyes; shockingly green with flecks of gold and royal blue.
“What is your name?” I whispered huskily.
“I don’t have one,” he answered listlessly, casting his eyes downward.
Without another word, I kneeled and wrapped my arms around his tiny body, letting my tears flow silently again.
“Hush,” he breathed, stroking my hair, “it will be all right.”
We stayed like that for a very long time, and when the sun began sinking behind the crumbling buildings, turning the sky scarlet, we spoke again.
“Where did you learn to play?”
“Nowhere. I can’t read music,” he said simply, in a tone befitting a much older person.
“How do you get your songs?”
“From my head….they’re there. Always playing.”
“You mean you made up that song?”
“Yes. In a way. You see, I AM my songs. They’re all I know.”
I couldn’t answer. There wasn’t anything I could say. It was if all my words, my entire self, was gone. Absorbed by his aura.
I pulled away from him, staring deeply into his vast enveloping eyes when he began to evaporate. Somehow I knew it would happen and I could tell he always had.
He smiled sadly and placed his tiny warm hand on my face, closing his eyes. A pain shot through me for a moment before it numbed and eventually faded, but I could tell there was something different. There was music drifting through my head, echoing off everything; his songs.
      Even now I hear them; all of them, ceaselessly. Sometimes there are new ones. He’s there somewhere, in my head. I dream about him occasionally. But he never sees me. He just sits there at his piano, playing away. And I always wake up crying. Every time I wander the streets I can’t help but check the faces of all the little boys that pass, even though I know he’s not in the world anymore. When I asked him, he didn’t know who he was, but now I do. He was every unwritten song since the beginning of time.

November 17th 2012

I never really thought about it. It just didn't matter. After all, why did it concern me? I'd never bothered it; why should it bother me? The dark whispers on the street corners honestly made me laugh. I mean, these people were taking things WAYY to seriously! I knew it wasn't evil. It gave us nice things, like school, and money to buy stuff without having to work for it. That wasn't bad!
No, it was nice. It took care of us. All these theories were just the mattering of people who had lost their minds from age, or just wanted to chew on something.
It's over now. I know more. And I know that it's my fault, not because of what I did, but because of what I didn't do.
But before you scream at me for bringing this on you, you should know something about Americans as they used to be. We had everything. Nice homes, nice cars, good food; it all fell in our laps. Even low-income families had computers and iPods. We were invincible. Except from within.
Everything collapsed. And all because of greed. When politicians see a rich, happy people, they want some of their wealth. So they promise you food, housing, healthcare, an education, and eternal happiness if you'll just elect them and pay a few more taxes. So you peel off the greenbacks and drink the honey of their talk and sit back and enjoy yourself.
And like the old Energizer bunny, it kept going and going and going....And every time, they put the butter on a little thicker and took away a little more, keeping us distracted by throwing mud and worse at each other. It picked up in '09, and people started noticing things. I can remember them, the nutcase conservatives waving signs at the Tea Party rallies. But I didn't understand why anything was wrong, and besides, there was always a flap around election time.
But nothing quieted down. People were getting more and more worried. When my dad went to buy ammunition for hunting, almost a year after the election, he had trouble getting some; it was still flying off the shelves. "I wonder where it's all going?" he asked himself and me and we drove home. Were people stockpiling it? If so, why?
I tried to laugh it off, but my more conservative friends shook their heads dolefully. "Few forms of government have ever lasted much over 200 years. When they hit the two hundred year mark, there's always some kind of upheaval. The country may remain intact, but the system of government changes."
"But this is America," I protested. "So it is, and here lies a spirit of tenacity that, no matter how dormant it grows, is surpassed by few, if any other nations." Their eyes were glowing annoyingly. "And here, if we wake up, there is a chance to break the cycle, or at least have a peaceful transition."
I thought they were crazy. Life was good. Seriously! The politicians were working for our good, weren't they? Why couldn't anyone see that? 'Upheaval.' Pshaw!
I was wrong.
Alot of people were wrong. But things did start happening, and I saw that it wasn't all that I had thought it had been. It was bad, or at least, worse than I had ever dreamed. There was some violence. Shots were fired. People got killed. And we still don't know how it will end, because you're writing the story.
The future swings on what you do and what you don't do.
What's your choice?
--Amelia Turner
Amelia Turner is a character of my own imagination, but the things she speaks of aren't. Yes, this is random stuff that drifts from my head, but I hope that, for once, this is more than playful writing.

This year Rebecca decided to do math club.  She is in high school now and so the math is TRICKY.  She, being the perfectionist that she is, came out of class today in a rather foul mood.  Methinks it has something to do with the review they had of a recent contest the team competed in.  She was not happy on that day either.  I'm just sayin' there may be a connection somewhere...