A Compilation of Unfinished Stories

Alex and the Creepettes was going to be the third story in the previously mentioned series. It later would almost become the second, as I didn't think I'd finish the pig story before then. It was going to be an adventurous story about a young girl named Alex who would embark on an epic journey to discover who she really was. To accomplish that, she would group up with three lady-creepers and form a band. Steve would have been in it too. I thought up a lot of funny situations for Steve to be in, but I never got that far in. 

      You never really know what's going to was up along the Spanish shore. The sea takes many a fine young man and woman, who have in their posession many a fine treasure. The smart spend their days in school studying tirelessly to pursue their fortune. The clever skip all the academic nonsense and spend their days collecting trash off the beach, very valuable trash, mind you. A soggy old leather jerkin becomes the chestpeice of the ancient and legendary sea-god Conpositus. So ancient and legendary, this Conpostius is, that you've never heard of him. The average Spaniard would likely know that there is no sea-god Conpositus, and would not be fooled by any shady beach-scowering shop keepers. Of course, these are likely not the Spaniards you are thinking of.
      Says you at this point, very rudely interrupting, "I quite like the idea of a story set in Spain. I'm really fond of the climate and geography. The culture is fascinating and the food is fantastic. I grew up there, you know. Lived there for many, many years. It really puts a whole new twist on the whole, I don't know, 'Minecrafty-themed thing.' How exactly are you planning to bring Minecraft into this? Is this about Minecraft at all? If not the title really threw me off." Hold your horses there, pal. If you are asking these questions, you likely did not read the preceding story, which sets up this whole fantasy world thing for you. I'd highly recommend it, 'cause I'm not explaining any of that crap again. 
      In Spain City, anything that lied within a relatively close distance to the castle was a thriving metropolis of commerce, industry, and overall proseperity. Anything beyond that was a poverty-stricken slum. Possibly the worst place to live in Spain City was The Wharf. The Wharf, contrary to what you may think, was, in fact, several wharves, stores, poorhouses, jailhouses, people houses, rocks, and sand. A whole lotta sand. Walking through the streets, you'd notice sand where paving ought to be and black, jagged rocks where the sea ought to be. Not that there were no typical sand-up-to-the-water's-edge-and-maybe-only-a-few-sharp-jagged-rocks kinds of beaches. You just had to look for them, and citizens of The Wharf generally had much more important things to do. Like trying not to die. If you could find the time to take a walk on the beach, you probably lead a steady lifestyle. And you probably had a door that locked. 
      Some people will tell you long walks on the beach are romantic. Fran and Mari might have agreed to that once. A long time ago. Imagine being maried a year. Now imagine being married for sixty years. Now imagine being married for one thousand, six hundred and fifty two years, four weeks, and three days. Normally in The Wharf, it's an amazing feat for a couple to have gone a year and a half without one slitting the other's throat. Whatever these two have left, they focus into their business. Fran and Mari co-own a relatively small shop on Pete's Street where they sell off their mechandise. Pete's Street, despite it not being the longest or even the widest street, it certainly is the busiest street in The Wharf. Shops, stalls and inns lined both sides of the dusty street. Children played in dark alleys with the muggers, dogs ran around transmitting Notch-knows-what to the townspeople, the crooks and murderers ran about crooking and murdering willy-nilly, and the Mafia watched it all from the upstairs room of just about every building on Pete's Street. Weapons and exotic narcotics were manufactured on small, uncharted islands off the coast of Spain and shipped discreetly to the Mafia's base of operations in The Wharf: Vinny's Fishin' Shack. Located at the end of the boardwalk at the end of Pete's Street, it's sort of a community favorite, especially those who owe a great deal of money to the Mafia. The can generally be seen dining with great big men donning pinstripe suits an thin moustaches ordering several helpings of the most expensive items on the menu. It gets a lot of business, but it's not the safest place to eat. Wharven mobsters aren't exactly known for their cooking. The merchandise moves from the restaurant up the boardwalk into the first store on the beachfront. The goods work their way up Pete's Street until they reach The Wall. The Wall was, well, just that. A wall. A very big one, at that. It comepletely surrounded The Wharf on all sides but one, built with the intention of keeping the Wharvers in and everyone else out. The goods are taken underneath the wall through a secret underground tunnel and are then distributed throughout the inner city. The Mafia's presence in The Wharf is no secret. Not even to inner city officials. They'd do something about but, you know. The Wharf. The Mafia isn't even an issue to the people of The Wharf. They only blackmail some people (they usually have it coming to them anyway), and when they aren't doing that they regroup in Vinny's Fishin' Shack to talk about stuff no one cares about. There are plenty of murders and robberies in The Wharf, the only problem being they aren't done by the murderers and robbers. Those guys did it once, learnt their lesson, and happily waste away time in jail where they are fed and sheltered. No, it'sthe vagrants and the beggars who cause the real trouble. They prowl the streets at night looking to better themselves in any way you could possibly imagine. Petty thievery, major theivery, and murder are not out of the question. 
      If nothing else, The Wharf has a view of the oceans, and that clear, crisp ocean air. Take a moment to look over your idea of 'the beach.' What comes to mind? Clear skies? Warm weather? An acceptable number of rocks? That's exactly how a child from the inner city might imagine The Wharf. And boy, what a disappointment it would be for that child to actually see The Wharf. When it isn't pouring buckets, the skies are overcast and you can't see five feet in front of you. Everywhere that isn't Pete's Street has this strange lingering scent of wet dog, or possibly wet man dying in the gutter. Pete's street smells like fish.
      Some of Spain's initial inhabitants began their lives washed up on The Wharf's beach, although then it wasn't The Wharf. It was just a wharf and some really crappy waterfront property. With the amount of people falling out of trees these days, the city of Spain as a whole decided it could sustain itself without The Wharf's occasional shipment of fish. They shut the massive wooden gates and boarded them up with large, impressive-looking nails. Anyone unfortunate to begin their life waking up in the cold, wet sands of The Wharf is stuck there for life.
      "I said, let's. Go. Back."
      "Mmmm."
      "Fran, are you listening to me?" Mari pushed a tuft of hair out of her face, which the sea breeze politely swept back into place. "If we go back now, I can make it," she lowered her voice, "worth your while."
      "Ha," came some sort of soulless laugh. "Not fooling me this time." 
      "Have I tried that one before?"
      "Mmmhmm. Lots of times, Mari."
      "You're kidding."
      "No."
      "I don't remember."
      "Maybe you're just getting old."
      She stopped walking and looked out over the sea. For dramatic effect, of course. There wasn't much of anything to see. Fran, completely oblivious, continued on. 
      "Ahem."
      He stopped slowly and looked over his shoulder. Fran was a man with the physical appearance of a man in his mid-twenties and the mentality of someone in their eighties who's fresh out of prunes.
      "What are we doing with our lives?" she began.
      "I've heard this one before too."
      "Shut up, I'm serious."
      Mari continued her monologue, and Fran almost would have stopped to listen if a faint glimmer in the sand hadn't distracted him. It is important to note that sand is composed from lots of little chunks of rock. 

I rewrote the dialog here a buttload of times. I never really found a good way to transition into the next bit of narrative.

This is a very old story that I never finished. It's not Minecraft-related in the slightest and was never intended to be published on Planet Minecraft. I began writing it one night because I was bored, and you can really tell in the first few paragraphs that it was not intended to be taken seriously. However, as I continued to work on it, the story developed into something much better. 

I've seriously considered rewriting the beginning several times, but that would involve changing the whole story's purpose. In response to that I'd need to read through the rest of the story and make little changes here and there. And that sounds kinda like proofreading. I hate proofreading.

      I recall when I was very young, a man, and quite the manly man at that, told me something that I will never forget until the day I die. Well, honestly, he was really talking about me rather than directly to me, but it meant something to me nonetheless. The man wore sunglasses and had a thick gingery beard that had two short braids down below the chin. The sleeves on his gown were rolled up, (which, concerning the present situation, wasn’t exactly sanitary) and I could see a tattoo depicting a banana engaged in a dangerous conflict with a dragon while they both were hovering above the Earth. At least, that’s what I saw it as. My eyesight then was not as it is now. The man lifted his shades to reveal his two big blue beautiful eye patches. I had just met him, but I felt like I already had a deep, emotional connection with this man. From this day forth, I had decided this man was my real parents. Both of them. Wrapped up into one truly incredible person. He lifted me up and looked right into my eyes. He then briefly glanced at my mother, who was currently lying down unconscious behind me on the table. My birth mother, I mean. I may have been birthed from her womb, but the only mother/father figure I needed was the man right in front of me. I could tell he was just as elated to be in my presence as I was to be in his. I could see it in his eye patches. He mumbled something to my dad that I could not understand. He spoke German or Swedish, or something. I really couldn’t care less about what he’d told my father, but what he said to me next, would mark a turning point in my life. A good two and a half minutes into it. He looked at me, as if he were staring directly into my soul, and said, simply, "Ekelhaft."
      "Here he is!"
      "He’s already pulled the little one out!"
      "(Swear word)!"
      Three officers burst the doors brandishing their weapons at my dad and the mysterious gingery man. Although I was a baby of superior intelligence, I was still a baby nonetheless, and these three men would be the subjects of my nightmares for years to come. I’ll never forget them. They donned long, dark coats and shiny black boots. On each of their shoulders was stitched the insignia of The Baby Police. The first was tall and slender, with a hooked nose and shiny, black hair that fell over his face from under the brim of his cap. The second was unnaturally muscular and wore a mask so I couldn’t tell what he looked like, but I’m sure that it wasn’t pretty. The third was short and rather pudgy. He had a constant scowl across his face as well as a constant swearing problem. Each armed with an infamously lethal Baby Blaster, they were ready to kick some baby butt. The first officer lowered his weapon, then glared at the second, and snarled, "And you wondered why they’d be hiding in the abandoned wing!"
      "Sheeze, don’t you remember how long it took us to get here? That’s the only reason this wing’s abandoned. How was I supposed to know these guys weren’t too lazy?" The second officer said in a muffled voice.
      "Well, if we had just gone this way in the first place, we could’ve caught them before the kid was born!"
      "I would have thought it was a good idea, but his fat rear does is complain!" yelled the second pointing his Baby Blaster at the third.
      "(Swear word)s, te booth a’yeh! Te utter (swear)s ‘ev gottin awey!" shouted the third officer, "‘n get tat (swear)in’ teng aituh me face!"
      By the time they’d finished arguing, the gingery man had tossed me to my father and we all jumped out the window. Except my mother, of course. She just kinda, well, kept lying there. Never saw her again. I never really got to know her, but she was probably a terrible person, so what do I care? Now, you’re probably thinking that escaping through the window would make sense. And it generally would. How-ever, the particular room we were occupying was on the thirty fourth floor of the hospital. As for broken bones, my dad probably broke two or three, or all of them. But that gingery man had femurs of steel. He landed gracefully, like falling thirty floor stories was nothing for him. Have I stressed how amazing he was? I was fine because my dad broke my fall. The gingery man looked down at us and said some-thing we couldn’t understand. I didn’t anyway. My dad seemed to get the idea, at least. He gave a sort of acknowledging grunt-scream and then the gingery man ran off. The thought of him abandoning us here, alone and vulnerable in the rear of the hospital would not even cross my mind. I figured there was a burning puppy orphanage somewhere that he had to extinguish. Slowly but surely, my dad (myself sitting rather comfortably on his back) crawled all the way back home to his house. It was a quaint little shack on the outskirts of New New New New York.     Now, let me tell you, New New New New York is a big city. It literally took a couple of weeks to get there. Geez, come to think of it I wonder what Dad ate. I was sleeping pretty much the whole time. He crawled in-side, then proceeded to lock the door and all the windows. He propped himself up onto a dirty (yet cozy-looking) green couch, then made a noise that made it sound like it was the first time he’d breathed in two weeks. And who knows? It probably was.
      "You know, kid," he said to me, "you’re gonna need a name."
He clearly didn’t care, or wasn’t paying attention, or something, because I already had a name: Ekelhaft.
      "How... about..." he started. It looked like he was going to pass out before he finished. I didn’t blame him. It had been a hard two weeks.
      "Princeton!"
      Ew. No.
      "Any objections?"
      Yes. Several.
      "No? Hah, Princeton it is."
      But my name is Ekelhaft.
      These are all things I would have said, if I could. I was only two weeks old. Two week olds can’t talk. That’s silly. So, from that day forth, I was stuck with Princeton. What kind of a name is that anyway? He was probably just very, very beat from staying up two weeks straight crawling around because after he was done naming me, he passed right back out again.
Well, this was my home now. I felt like I had the right to look around. It was small, but it was enough. There were three rooms, a bed, a bath, and an everything else. The walls were sort of a dark, creamy color, and the ceiling was covered in water stains. I assume at one point the ceiling and walls were painted white, but who knows how long ago that was? In the same room sat a refrigerator, a sink, a stove, and a lot of cardboard boxes. I crawled into the bedroom to assess the situation in there. There was only one bed (Which I assumed was for me, my dad was using the couch), which really was just a yellowing mat-tress lying sloppily on top of an old, rusty metal frame. On top of that was a gross brown blanket with hundreds of small holes where moths had been eating it. The bathroom was better, at least, but nonetheless it felt lacking. The only thing in the room was a toilet. If you wanted to wash your hands, you’d have to walk back into the kitchen to use the sink. I didn’t even consider at the time where you had to go to take a shower.
      Well, life went on in this tiny little house for about three years. We survived all this time by eating only rice cakes that my dad had stockpiled in the boxes. To conserve them, he made a rule stating we could only eat one a day. Of course, the day came when we are sitting on the (now even dirtier, yet still surprisingly cozy) couch eating the last two rice cakes. My dad turned and looked down at me.
      "I saw this day coming since we only had about ten left, so I went out and got a job."
      Good for you, I thought, finally doing something with your miserable life.
      "This way," he continued, "We can have enough money to buy more rice cakes!"
      No, please, no. No more rice cakes. Ever.
      "But I can’t take you to work with me, so I’ve arranged for you to go to day care!"
      I didn’t know what day care was, and I didn’t like the sound of it. He led me outside to where he parked his bicycle. As overjoyed as I was to be outside for the second time in my life, this all spelled bad news. If there was one thing, one thing my dad told me never to do, it was to go outside. He said the Baby Police would find me and take me away, then they’d find him and take him away too. I always stayed away from windows and doors, in fear that a Baby Police officer would pass by and see me. He rode down an old dirt path, surrounded on both sides by tall grass. I dreaded entering the city. I imagined it to be crawling with of-ficers. However, to my surprise, Dad wasn’t riding for the city. I could tell it wasn’t the city because we’d passed through it on the way home, you know, when I was a baby. He took a different path and ended up travelling completely in the opposite direction. We continued to ride, my father pedaling, and myself sitting awkwardly in the basket, until upon reaching a large, run-down building we stopped. My dad lifted me out of the basket, then parked his bike among a couple of others, and one especially weird bike that was big, rusty, and had four wheels. He walked up to a door covered in peeling red paint and knocked softly.
      "What’s the password?" came a soft voice from inside.
      "I forgot," replied my dad, followed by a brief silence.
      "Ok," the voice said, "You can come in."
      The sound of more locks than I could count at the time becoming unlocked could be heard from the other side. The door opened a crack, and an eye peered out form inside. It opened into a slightly larger crack, and the woman poked her head out. She looked at my father and I, then to the left, the right, and finally back at us. It was the first time I’d seen a member of the female species. Of course, not taking my mother into account. But honestly, I never really saw her, I was just more, aware of her presence.
      "Don’t just stand there, come in," she said, opening the door wide.
      We stepped inside, where the lady hastily shut the door behind us and re-locked all of the locks. I looked around, it was pretty nice, definitely a lot roomier than our home. The walls weren’t even as yellow. There was some kind of shiny painting on the far wall. In it I saw, that’s weird, my dad. And there’s the lady, and- Holy crud, is that me? Brown hair, brown eyes, pale skin. I actually looked a lot like my father, except far more handsome. I think I would have been happier as a ginger, with a long gingery beard, and, hey, maybe a couple of eye patches. But I would wear green ones instead. Wouldn’t want to make it appear like I’m copying anyone in particular.
      "Mr. Miller, I presume?" she asked timidly, as if she was trying not to want to interrupt the nonexistent con-versation.
      "Yes," replied my dad, "Ms. Graham?"
      She Nodded.
      "And this is little Princeton, then?"
      Ekelhaft.
      "Yes ma’am."
      "Well then..."
      This was followed with a long silence that lasted what felt like several minutes. My dad looked at Ms. Graham, and then at me. Ms. Graham looked at me, and then at my dad. I looked at my dad, then at Ms. Graham, and then at myself.
      "Well," she finally said, "I suppose I should take Princeton into the other room then."
      "Oh, er, right."
      There was another long silence.
      "I’ll just go now, I suppose," my dad said.
      "Oh, right, um... Princeton! Do you want to say good-bye to your daddy?" she asked with a smile.
      No, not really.
      She led me through into the next room, which was filled with five small round tables, each one sitting five children.
      "Attention everyone," she said quietly, yet somehow at the same time very loudly. Everyone turned their attention to Ms. Graham and me, except for one kid who just continued looking straight ahead.
      "From today on, Princeton here will be joining us. Let us all be on our best behavior!" She said with a smile. I could hear murmurs all across the room. Some kids pointed at me. One kid started clapping. I liked him, he was cool.
      "Let me see," she continued, speaking more to herself than anyone else. The children stopped paying attention to her anyway.
      "Where shall I put you?"
      I looked around to see what tables I could sit at. The only open one was the table with the weird kid who does nothing but stare at a wall.
      "How about table five? It’s the one right over there," she said gesturing to that particular table. I hobbled over there as best I could and sat down in the open chair.
      Ms. Graham walked to the front of the room and continued talking, but I wasn’t listening. I decided to look about the room. The floor was carpeted in dark red. I’d assume it was dark because of how stained it was. The walls were covered in awful artwork. The ceiling lamps kept the room well lit with the complete lack of natural light. All the windows were boarded up and covered in more horrible art. I finally looked down to find that all the kids at the table were looking at me (well, except for one). In order from left to right, sat a young girl with blond pigtails, a young boy with dark skin and short curly hair, a boy who looked much too old to be here, and finally, to his left and my right sat the kid who just looked straight ahead. I almost thought he was looking at me too, but he was really looking past me. I turned around to see what he was looking at, but there was nothing there of interest.
      "So, uh, who are you guys?" I asked. They just continued to stare at me. "Can you... tell me your names?"
      "Tell us yours first," said the dark skinned boy. They all nodded in agreement, except for one (guess who).
      "Princeton," I said stiffly.
      "Princeton?" said the girl, "that’s a strange name."
      "It is, I suppose," I replied, "When my dad named me, he’d been away for two weeks straight. I don’t really think he was really in his right mind, if you know what I mean." The others loosened up a bit. "Princeton isn’t even my real name. It’s Ekelhaft."
      "Ekelhaft? What does that mean?" asked the older boy.
      "Well, I’m not really so sure myself," I said a little embarrassed, "I thinks it’s German, or Swedish, or something. It’s what my dad named me."
      "But I thought your dad named you Princeton," said the girl uncertainly.
      "Oh," I replied, "He isn’t my real dad. It’s kind of a long story, well as long as a story can be this far into my life, I guess."
      "Well, let’s hear it," said the dark skinned boy, trying to hide his enthusiasm. "Nothing exciting happens here anyway."
      So I explained my story to them. I spoke of the hospital, and the Baby Police, and the gingery man. Each of them listened intently, except, of course, he child on my right.
      "So," I said in conclusion, "I’ve told you my name, and literally my entire life story up until now. The least you guys can do now, is tell me your names."
      "I’ll start, I guess," said the girl to my left, "My name is Cassiopeia. I’m three"
      "Cassiopeia?" I said, "No offence, but I think that name is a lot weirder than Princeton."
      "Yeah," she said, "I’m pretty sure my parents were suffering from heavy drug use when they named me."
      "I’ll go next," said the next boy, trying a little too hard to sound disinterested "My name’s Chukwumereije. Four years old."
      "I’m not even going to try and say that."
      "I don’t even know what it means," he said, "My parents say it’s ‘traditional’ or something and we have to stay true to our family lineage. I just think it’s a mouthful to say."
      "What was it again?"
      "Chukwumereije."
      "My name’s Sophia," the older boy spoke up.
      "Really?"
      "What? At least it’s a normal name."
      "Yeah, but, you’re a boy, right?"
      "Yes...?"
      "Doesn’t that just sound a little... feminine?"
      "Well, yeah it is. My parents were expecting a girl. My mom had decided that my name was going to be Sophia no matter what."
      "Oh. That’s unfortunate." I shifted to

And it ends there. No offense if your name happens to be Princeton, Cassiopeia, or whatever the heck I named the other kid.

This was my first attempt at 'fanfiction.' What could be a better source than James Joyce's A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man? He was a strapping Irish author famed for his clever allusions to the male genetalia. Thanks public education system.

This, too, suffered from the fact that I was not initially taking the story seriously. By the end it was going to be a very emotional narrative.

This one's actually pretty raunchy. Read at your own risk. Reader discretion is advised.

      Stephen Dedalus set off from God-Knows-Where, Ireland in the year 19-who-cares in search of greater purpose. But honestly, who really knows what's going on in the mind of the Dedalus? His thought process could burn out NASA's most complex super-computer. But his brains don't take away from his looks in the slightest. Stephen Dedalus is possibly the only man to make the pedo-stache work. If this man were to approach you in a dark ally you would be inclined to remove your pants. And that's just the start of it. I won't get too into the details, so your imagination can run wild. 
      He lowered his spectacles and removed his hat from his head. The warm sea air liquified on his tanned face, giving it a sheen that even Charlie coudln't match. It stung his eyes but it looked so, so sexy. He observed the way the sun reflected off the water, in a way you may describe as, "nice," "pretty," or even "pretty frikkin' swanky." But not the Dedalus.
      -Stephen.
      -Mmm?
      -When we set out from God-Knows-Where, you said you were...?
      -An artist.
      -But you haven't got any...er...you know, paint brushes or anything.
      The Dedalus turned to face the ship captain. He was a scraggly old man you could tell had existed long before the idea of bathing was invented, and obviously thought it was a fad that would be forgotten in a week or so.
      -No, good sir.There's nary a paintbrush nor an easel in my possesion. However, I never leave my trusy pen out of reach.
      He pulled up his shirt revealing a fountain pen tucked neatly into his belt, as well as his glorious six pack. A woman watching from father down on the deck immediately fainted. This was the sort of affect Stephen Dedalus had on people. They say the only man more sexy than The Dedalus was Denis Burnes. In the days of anciient Greece, Zeus became envious of Denis' masculine charms and put a curse on him. Denis is now so sexy, that any woman to gaze upon his body would drop dead on the spot. To this day he lives in seclusion deep under the sea in the Hall of Beards, named for Denis' luscious crumb catcher. That too put Zeus to shame.
      -Then, you do ink drawings?
      -In a manner of speaking, yes. But I draw neither portraits nor still life.
      -Landscapes, then?
      -No, Captain... what was your name again?
      -Murphy, sir.
      -No, Captain Murphy, I draw words.
      -...Words?
      -Words.
      -So, like calligraphy?
      -Murphy, what do you see when you gaze over yonder?
      -Erm, water?
      -No, there's more. Look at the way it glistens as the light is reflected from its ever-changing face. Doesn't it envoke a feeling? Does it make you feel at home? You, of all people, who literally lives on the sea.
      -It?
      -The water, Murphy!
      -Oh. Well, I guess.
      -As it gets into the late hours of day, have you never noticed the colors, bouncing on the water's crests. The yellows and oranges of early sunset mixing with the reds and purples of late dusk in what one would think could only exist in a sort of abstract painting, but look, there it is!
      -I... guess I can see that.
      A young blind woman who just happened to be listening at the time by some cruel act of fate was given sight, seemingly by Stephen's words, just so that she could gaze out over the open sea then have her gift immediately taken away. It's very fortunate for her, in the brief moment she had, to see one of our world's more beautiful sights. Murphy caught notice of her and tipped his hat. She didn't notice. He wasn't a terribly unnatractive man. Give him a haircut and a couple-hundred showers and he'd be straight sexy. The Dedalus was making it rather clear he had nothing more to add the conversation and Murphy wasn't quite sure if he should add something else. He made some sort of an aknowledging grunt and shuffled back to the stern questioning his sexuality. On his way he peered out over the ocean. What was it The Dedalus had said? Something about orange water? Murphy squinted hard. The water kinda looked orange, but that didn't strike him as being anything special. He continued on his way in a less-than-merry manner.
      The name Poseidon invokes images in ones mind of ancient battles in the sea, tridents flailing about in the salty spray, lead by big burly naked men. This is not at all evocative of the awkward, decomposing little boat that is The Poseidon. It was probably a great sight in the harbor before you realize that you're looking at the wrong boat. In an almost suave motion, Murphy grasped the ship's wheel with both hands. Two of the handles broke off as a result, but Murphy stared on ahead as though nothing had happened.
      -Hey, Dad?
      -Yes, Kim, honey?
      -No, Dad. It's Jason.
      -Oh.
      Murphy looked over his shoulder, and lo, there stood twelve-year-old Jason. Or was it thirteen now? It didn't matter. Murphy shifted his gaze farther back, where Kim sat on a high stool admiring herself in a round mirror hung crookedly on the rear of the boat. These were Murphy's children. Adopted, of course. Murphy never found the time to meet a girl and make them the usual way. Murphy looked back down to Jason, contemplating whether or not he should say anything else. He figured if he just got back to steering the boat, Jason would forget what he was going to say and just bugger off. He waited a few seconds before looking back, but Jason was still there.
      -What is it?
      -There's a man down there.
      -And?
      -He's been looking this way for a while. I... I think he's looking at me.
      -Him, there? That's just Stephen Dedalus. Actually I was just talking to him. Ah, Jason, silly lad. He's not looking at you. He's looking at Kim. 
      Just at that moment Kim caught sight of The Dedalus in her mirror. He distracted her for the entirety of three seconds before she returned to her daily practice of observing how pretty she was, which, honestly is saying something. Jason looked at his foster-sister. 
      -That figures, I guess.
      He shuffled his way across the creaking boards and looked out over the ocean, lost in thought. The sun had almost entirely sunk below the distant horizon. Sean was making his way around now, lighting the ship's lanterns. The flames flickered encased in glass, radiating an aura of light faint but somehow warm. The lanterns looked like stars in an almost black niight. The final rays of daylight were still visible, but quickly fading, leaving blue moonlight to guide their way through the night.
      -The night is really beautiful.
      Jason spoke without thinking. He looked behind him nervously to see if anyone had heard him. Murphy stared ahead at open ocean. Kim shuffled on her stool and twirled a tress of her golden hair around her finger, glimmering in the low light.
      -Thank you.
      Nobody would have been listening anyway.
      -Jason?
      Jason was not so much shocked as confused. Nobody ever called for him. Not on the boat, in the kitchen, back in the orphanage, anywhere. He glanced backward and saw Murphy staring at him with a face that conveyed an odd combination of regret and fatigue from thinking very deeply for a very long time. 
      -You need something, Dad?
      -Well, you see... I've got to get so, say, uh, swabbing the poop deck. I'd ask Kim to take over steering, but, you know...
      In the background Kim giggled whilst attempting to make the sexiest face possible. Jason was not so much confused as he was shocked.
      -You want me to steer for you?
      -Oh, don't worry. I won't be long. I think. Here, all you need to do is stay on course. Don't turn this ship for any reason, you understand me?
      Jason nodded slowly.
      -Good, alright. Won't be long.
      At this point Murphy appeared to be in much discomfort, noteably so as he wobbled off more in the manner of a penguin than he usually does, the two handles still clenched firmly in his hands. Jason watched him go without making a sound. In the dim light the wheel of the ship seemed almost intimidating. It reminded Jason of a gaping mouth you'd see on some frightening fantastical monster. A monster missing several teeth. Jason didn't let the absence of the handles phase him, he could manage without them. Soon, the idea of Jason piloting the ship all by himself no longer frightened him. In fact, the ship almost seemed like a part of him. He swayed to and fro with the boat, with the sea. It nearly put him to sleep, but the sound of footsteps brought him back to reality. Someone was climbing up to Jason's deck. He looked to his left expecting to see Murphy come hobbling up the steps and make some crass remark about his trip that he didn't really expect anyone to be listening to. To Jason's surprise, it was not Murphy's face that appeared. First came a light, wide-brimmed hat, followed by small, round spectacles, a boring yet oddly alluring moustache, then a defined jaw line. It looked a bit like this fellow could use a shave, but The Dedalus can pull of any look with ease. Jason wasn't entirely sure how to react. Seeing as he was temporarily in the captain's position, he figured he ought to at least say something.
      -Um...
      Alright, thought Jason, um is usually a good place to start. But where to go from there? Hello? That sounded good.
      -Hello.
      He tried to speak with confidence, but honestly, if The Dedalus was not obsessing over Kim at the moment, he probably would not have taken notice of Jason at all. Jason just had that sort of effect. The Dedalus made his way across the deck to the spot in which Kim sat. He moved slow, but with confidence. He observed the way her hair, very straight but somehow posessing great volume, flowed like a waterfall just below her shoulders much like a waterfall, ever changing in the calm sea breeze. I won't even get started on her clothing, which could be deemed lewd even by today's standards. Murphy, being the sort of father he is, figured, she's a grown woman, let her do what she wants. Jason tried not to look at her very often.

Normally when I sit down to write a story I have some idea in my head as to what the story is going to be about. In this case I just decided to write something. In fact, I wrote the entirety of this story while in a Skype call with very loud people. It was hard to concentrate. If I were to finish this story, the opening paragraph will need some serious touching up, and I really can't even imagine getting around to writing the rest of the story. On top of that, I'm still not sure what state I should put Summer's mother in.

It was intended to detail the lack of involvement of Summer's parents in his life, as well as how scary the world can seem to a child who doesn't have adequate experience.

I don't know what I'm talking about anymore.

      Take a moment to imagine a barren world inhabited by lizards and nothing else at all. No trees, grass, flowers, bugs. The aforementioned lizards would have to adapt to survive without daily necessities such as eating, drinking, or breathing. Says you at this point, is this story about lizards? Replies I, No. I just couldn't for the life of me think of a compelling way to open this story. Mr. Summers looked down from his mother's penthouse suite at all the tiny little people and cars. He gently caressed his pet lizard. Her name was Susanne. She slowly wirggled her way out of Mr. Summer's grasp and made her way across the light carpeted floor in a manner similar to a drunk beetle that hasn't slept in a week. As Summers' eyes followed her slowly, a thought popped into his mind: Lizards; they're cool. He had never really thought about it as long as he'd owned her. The way her spines stood up on the back of her dull green body. The way the dried out, saggy skin flopped back and forth under her chin as she scuttled across the floor in a similar manner to that of a roach who'd recently been injected with a lethal dose of morphine. He didn't even know what kind of lizard she was, but seeing her now, disappearing behind the ornate dresser, he was determined to find out. 
      "Mom," he yelled, "I'm taking the elevator down!" 
     No response. Summers stared at the menacing dark oak door. His mother had made an awful habit of falling asleep in the bathroom. He knew he shouldn't leave without checking with his mother, but he couldn't bother her now. I mean, for Heaven's sake, she's in the bathroom. Summers got a grip, both literally on his lizard, trying her best to get out from behind the dresser, as well as internally, and I'm not referring to his lower intestine. Summers decided it was about time he took charge. He was going to walk out of the room without even tucking in his shirt. He started for the door but was immediately faced with great anguish. He managed to leave, but to make up for the butterflies in his stomach he decided, screw it, I'll tuck in my shirt. 
      He strode, mind you, it was a very clumsy stride, across the lobby, lizard in hand. His eyes met with Ms. Miller's. She glared at him from over the top of her glasses. She sat behind the front desk looking as dreary as usual. Summers wasn't particularly fond of Ms. Miller. She usually worked the desk when Tony wasn't around. Tony was always looking out for Summers. He told him jokes, stories, and would even treat him to ice cream when he got his paycheck. Summers wobbled his way over to the counter, shifting his gaze awkwardly from Ms. Miller to the vase of wilting flowers to her right. She continued glaring. 
      "Hi Ms. Miller," he forced.
      She glared.
      "Is, uh, is Tony here?"
      "No," she replied in an icy manner. 
      "Oh," he said, "I was just going to ask him about my lizard." He held Susanne up so Ms. Miller could see. She didn't look at her.
      "Tony isn't in," she responded very bluntly. Summers could not help but notice her bright red lips as she spoke. She wore the sort of slimy lipstick your least favorite aunt does when she comes to visit. You know, the kind that doesn't wash off easy. Fortunately for Summers, it didn't seem like he'd be getting a kiss from Ms. Miller anytime soon.
      "Do you know where he went?" he said to the vase. He glanced briefly at Ms. Miller every few seconds. He figured if he looked long enough he'd turn to stone.
      "Out," she said. She looked down on the desk to organize a stack of papers that she'd already organized. For an excuse for something to do, she shuffled all of the papers so she would have to reorganize the stack. Summers, eventually getting the message, thanked her and continued on his way. 

The fact that Ms. Miller has the same name as Mr. Miller from The Baby Story is purely coincidental. I wrote the two stories more than a year apart from each other.

      Conejo Oaks was a small suburb most notable for having its own public school and the highest murder rate in the whole of Lopac. That sounds just fine and dandy, but the mess of dead ends and long unconnected streets gives the impression that the planners had no idea what they were doing. In reality the same could be said for all of Lopac. Horrible street layouts aside, anyone who decides to build a school within a mile of the state penitentiary is beyond help.

      It was hot. Exceptionally hot. Adam lifted peered down through the blinds. There had been frost on the roofs less than an hour ago. He lifted the blinds and cracked open the window only to find that it was significantly warmer outside than it was inside. Adam closed the window back up and lowered the blinds. He really didn’t care for sun this early in the morning. His mother was likely tidying up that which needed no tidying up while Eric loafed around and ate all of their food. Not wanting to have to deal with all of that yet, Adam got undressed and crawled back into bed. He didn’t catch up on any sleep, however. He sat awake, staring at the wall of his bedroom trying his hardest to clear his mind. Adam

EDIT: Look. I wrote more.

It's actually a pretty recent story I've started. This isn't even supposed to be the beginning. I figured that the beginning would take shape if I were to start somewhere in the middle. I have a lot of good ideas for this story, I just need to find the time to actually get them down on paper. Metaphorical paper. I used a computer to write this. C:

      It was a normal afternoon in West Adolfington, New Jersey. Adam Chapman opened up his bedroom window and took a long, deep breath. He instantly smelled the familiar and reassuring scent of fresh pies being baked across the street in Ms. Smoofel’s bakery. Thinking that a pie would make a nice lunch, or for that matter, a nice breakfast (seeing as he had just woken up at three o’clock PM), he decided to head on over and snag one. He snuck around back and waited for Ms. Smoofel to head out, as she did every day around this time. He would then take that opportunity to enter the building and take as many pies as he’d like. But that little scenario did not play out exactly as Adam had intended it to. The front door to the bakery opened, and instead of Ms. Smoofel, out came a large, brooding, dark-skinned man. He wore over his clothes a messy apron that appeared stained through excessive use. What was most likely was that he was a slob and not cautious in the kitchen. He looked around rather ominously before heading off into town. Adam was too distracted by hunger to take too much notice of the bakery’s new resident. Sure, he thought it was odd, but nothing so odd that it would distract him from the mission at hand. He entered the bakery, and saw on the counter a freshly baked pie. He delightedly made his way over and deeply inhaled. It smelled like a meat pie. He would have preferred something sweet, but he was too hungry to look for anything else. In fact, he noticed that the place seemed strangely deserted.

I wrote this a while ago as a joke. It was gonna be a spooooky story. But it was kinda stupid so I never finished it.