Little Miss Author's Description Skills Stink

The Capital bustled, as it always did. Poeyan tended to her Liju, as she always did, or at least had for a few years, and that felt like always, at the age of fifteen. The Liju flitted around in their cavern, thicker here than anywhere else. Poeyan set out a little food for the glowing bugs. They flew out from under her feet with agility, but still she was careful not to step on any. She had once, on accident, and it had left a glowing splotch on the floor, as well as earning her ample punishment. Once she set the foot out the Liju clustered around it and her, landing in her hair and tickling her arms.

She left them to their dinner, emerging back in the main cavern. The glowing bugs flashed here and there, and the children chased them. Poeyan hadn't learned much communication, but her teacher had said they enjoyed playing with the children. Poeyan turned to her home, an offshoot from the main cavern. Her books awaited there. Care and communications, history, anatomy as well, she supposed. Enough to fill years with just basic training. All to take care of little flying, glowing bugs.

She would get to go on a trip later, to see the other five varieties. She was familiar with the red Liju now, but there were green, blue, aqua, white and yellow as well. She'd seen them before, but never studied them.

Poeyan turned to her books. If she didn't get to the point she needed, she'd not get to go into the field.

Little Miss Author has been working on her description skills. This was practice. She did a very poor job.

There. Proper grammar and everything.

THREE DAYS

I slew another time piece, hurling a book at it. Little Miss Author and her occupations. But none of them interested her now. Only what was coming in a few days. I had to keep breaking the block of time between now and then up. Paradise Lost bounced off to the floor, taking a few chunks of preceived time with it. Not much. She didn't care for that book. I stabbed the ever-morphing chunk with a flute next. The thing kept suddenly growing, suddenly shrinking, as Little Miss Author thought about it or about something else. Three days wasn't much time, really, she would think. But then she would get impatient. “A little consistancy would be nice!” I shouted to no one in particular, looking for the wooden swords. Sneaky little things. They hardly ever showed up, since Little Miss Author hardly ever got to use them. The Physics book went next, but the really good time killers were nowhere to be found. She'd hidden the manuscript she was editing, and I'd used her mom already for a while. I was running out of origami ammunition. Besides, it would damage her tendons, and she needed those for typing.

I hurled origami lucky stars at it anyway. Three days.

Hey-o! Three days to November, when there will probably be very little flash. Maybe I can poke Little Miss Author into doing some, but she'll be obsessed with wordcount that she can get into her novel, or will help her with her novel.

By the way! Today's story is 209 words long. Yesterday's was 69. I call those both flash as far as length goes.

Also, new blog title and address!

Introduction

Handle contents with care.

Do not taunt the otter-girl, if you enjoy your head.

Do not ridicule the otter-girl, if you enjoy your innards whole.

Take care to gain the otter-girl's respect, if you value your life.

Do not turn your back to the otter-girl, until you have gained her respect.

Perhaps it is best not to open the box.

The box had been opened – from the inside.

A Deal is Struck

So there was suspense, evidently drawn out so long that it all disappeared. I guess that's what happens when you spread it too thin. The reason it all went poof is thus: Little Miss Author forgot. Anyway, here's what'll be happening around here:

This blog will hopefully become a repository of flash fiction and short stories by Little Miss Author, featuring yours truly. She's been wanting to work on flash and shorts for a while, but she's not sure what to do. I want a story. I get a bunch of stories, I guess it turns out. It was quite the debate, under pressure. I get to keep my commentary on her, at least in some stories. As for genre? Little Miss Author has no clue.

Rants! Hooray!

I must say, probably 90% or so of this blog will be a rant, most likely against Miss Author. I've been poking her for a few days now about stories, but she keeps ignoring me. But I've been thinking - or maybe making Miss Author think, since it seems to work better - sending her into memory lane, tossing in story ideas, and I think I'm weakening her. Hopefully, someday I'll be able to get myself a story. It's strange though, I never really minded for a while, I kind of popped into existence as a Role Play character, when she actually used to Role Play, and then she maybe took a liking to me, so bits and pieces of me got thrown into stories, and I was dragged out as myself in some chats when character building was being done. I never really used to care that I didn't have a story. I was shoved into my cage because of my evil influence and grudge list, and I would break out when I could and cause some ruckus. Maybe I'm tired of that. Maybe I wouldn't be so destructive if I just had a better outlet, you know?

Little Miss Author has some vague ideas right now, but I'm not allowed to share them apparently. Cue suspense!

So What?

I finally got around to pestering Miss Author about getting me a story, but she seems so unhappy to give me one, like she's afraid she'll lose me if she does. Apparently I'm her muse or something. Whatever. I'm a character in her head.

My name is Jacki, I'm... Huh, what am I? Little Miss Author isn't much of a drawing artist, so often times I don't particularly have a defined form. Usually my hair's dark brown, I think. I'm average height, tanned enough from the sun, oh, and often times half-otter, kinda. I typically keep an otter tail, but it comes and goes. She's not so good with defining people. My weapons get definitions though. I often carry a dirk, though currently I need a new one, and occasionally I have a nice sling and stone pouch, embroidered. I think they're supposed to have some family significance to me, but Miss Author didn't get it ingrained enough in my head I guess. If I had a story, I'd know. I'd have a history. As it is, no one knows who my parents are, or if I even have any, or anything about me except that I'm a figment of her imagination. She's not all that kind to her characters, really. Better to have a story and die than to be caught in limbo like this, no true form or memory. She really treasures memory, for one reason or another, but she doesn't have the kindness to grace me with any.

But here I go being depressing. I'm not always like this, really. When you put me with a friend or two we have a great time. Just don't ask me what my story is. I have none.

-Jacki, the otter-girl caught in limbo