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Lisa's Choice Chapter 1
A Simpsons Fanfic
Disclaimer: This is a bit "dark" and is more of a realistic take on the story set nine years in the future. This will also be Older Lisa x Sideshow Bob

Lisa opened the front door slowly, hoping to not draw her mother's attention. She peaked her head in and didn't see her. If she was lucky her mother wouldn't realize what time it was, and that she was home from school. A wind blew in through a window pulling the door shut with an audible thunk.

"Lisa? That you?"

She was in the kitchen; of course. Probably slaving away on some meal that her fat slob of a father wouldn't appreciate. Neither would her brother. Lisa shook her head, she didn't want to think about Bart right now.

"Yeah mom, it's me. Just going to study."

"Where is your brother?" Lisa had already started up the stairs, but paused to answer.

"He said he was going to hang with some friends." Footsteps exited the kitchen and headed towards her. Lisa cursed herself for wearing a t-shirt instead of her usual long-sleeved shirts. It had been such a nice day and she had been careless. If she bolted her mother would investigate, so instead she tried to turn to the side and hope her mother wouldn't see.

"Did he say he'd be home for dinner?" Lisa looked down at her mother and took a breath trying to get past the catch in her throat.

"He said he would."

If possible Lisa would have willed her mother into leaving. Trying to walk up the stairs without turning would be difficult, and look suspicious. Instead a small eternity seemed to pass as she stared down her mother. Without a word her mother shrugged and turned to leave. Lisa heaved a silent sigh and turned to head the rest of the way up.

"What's that on your arm? A bruise!?" Lisa froze. Her mother must have turned back, probably to say something about dinner. "Have you been fighting? Lisa! Answer me!"

"It's nothing okay!I… fell… on the way home."

"Did you fight with Bart again!? How many times have I told you Lisa? Good girls-"

"Good girls don't fight! I know, Mom. Lay off."

"What did you do to upset Bart this time?"

Lisa had no desire to play this game.

"Why is it always me!? Did it ever occur to you that I might not have done anything wrong?"

"You're the smart one Lisa," Her mother's voice rose to match Lisa's. "You should know better than to get into petty fights. Your poor brother doesn't have all the advantages you do. It's no wonder he gets upset when you lord over how much better you are then him." It was too much; Lisa didn't even bother to reply and just continued up the stairs. "Lisa! Don't you dare walk away from me. I am talking to you young lady!"

She just continued until her bedroom door was locked behind her. Her mother yelled her name up at her several more times before realizing dinner was burning and rushed off to salvage it.

After kicking off her shoes Lisa hopped onto her bed. Her breath came out in little gasps. It wasn't fair, they always treated Bart different. No matter what he did no punishment lasted through dessert, and most times he received no punishment at all. No matter how good her grades were, or what she did it never mattered. A single mark on a test, voicing her opinion or even being on the wrong end of Bart's fist and it all fell apart.

She used to feel bad for Bart. The teachers always looked the other way and said nothing about the bruises around Bart's neck. Many of them even applauded her father for "putting that horrible child in his place." Never where they thought they could be heard of course. The years past though and Bart grew stronger and fast enough to stay out of their father's reach. When he entered middle school he seemed to do better, his grades stayed above failing and he gained new friends. Lisa knew better than anyone else that her brother wasn't as dumb as he seemed. Half of it was an act, though he was by no means as smart as her.

Lisa shifted her legs trying to not aggravate more bruises. Downstairs she heard voices. Her father must be home, and by the sound of it he wasn't happy.

Thump! Thump! Thump! His heavy footsteps climbed the stairs and stopped in front of her door.

"LISA! This is your father and I order you to come out here right now!"

"NO! Go away."

"You need to apologize to your brother for fighting with him!"

"I will not. I've done nothing wrong." Her mother's muffled voice said something.

"WHAT!!!?  Dinner is burned because of you! Now you've done it. No dessert for you."

"Is that all you care about? Food!?"

"Just for that you get no dinner."

"I'm not hungry!" Her father had no comeback for that. The concept of declining food was beyond his grasp. He stuttered a few times before huffing off.

A few minutes passed, when someone knocked lightly on her door. Lisa knew that knock. She quickly opened the door and pulled Maggie in before shutting the door again.

"…Lise you okay?" Lisa looked down at her baby sister. Already nine years old, though Lisa joked that Maggie was much older inside. Maggie rarely spoke, though no one knew quite why and the fact she spoke to Lisa was a testament to how worried she was. Normally Lisa would put on a smile and lie for her sake, but she couldn't tonight.

"No Maggie. I'm not." Without a word Maggie wrapped her arms around her big sister. "I'm sorry Maggie but I can't take it anymore." Lisa hugged back quickly before grabbing a coat and her backpack. "You should go, so you don't get in trouble."

Maggie nodded and turned to go. She paused for a brief moment.

"I love you Lisa." With that she left.

Lisa opened her window and started to climb out. She shot a quick glance at the door.

"I love you too Maggie."
Edit: I finally caved and got an account at and I will be editing this story and uploading it a chapter a week there. Along with my other past complete fanfics and any more I write in the future. I got bit by the fanfic bug again :XD: My author name over there is Urban Fae check it out if you want to see a MUCH better version of this. My writing has improved since I begain writing this. :) [link] /Edit

I suppose I own an explanation of some sort ^^; Well first I do love the Simpsons, and all the stupid wacky adventures they get into. I do love dumb Homer, Bart and everyone else in the cast so don't think that the way they are portrayed in this fic is the way I see them. This is more of a realistic take of sorts. It's funny and all when Homer strangles Bart and the fact it is abuse is lampshaded a bit on the show, but I wanted to take it even further.

Ch. 2: [link]

Sideshow bob will be in future chapters, and he is partly the reason I wrote this. Mostly I hope that this is at least a little entertaning and easy to understand.

Please let me know what you think :D
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Robert Terwilliger, otherwise known as Sideshow Bob had a frown on his face as he looked up at the banner on the outside of a building that said "Springfield Gamers, Video Game Convention" on it. He sighed as he looked down. "Why did I let myself get talked into this?" he asked in a thinking out-loud way.

"Because if you said no, your only son would throw a fit." came the voice of his younger brother Cecil who was standing beside him. The two had been dragged here by their sons Gino and William who as it turned out were really into video games which the two boys played quite a lot much to their fathers dismay.

"I am never going to understand these things or our sons weird obsession with them, for that matter." Bob stated to his brother as he crossed his arms. "I doubt any parent really does." Cecil added before he started to head inside the building, with Bob following him in.

Inside there was many tables set up and areas with stands that had people on them, talking. "Egad, how do they expect anyone to get around?" Bob commented upon seeing all of this madness. "I'm not quite sure." Cecil replied.

The two criminal brothers walked around, looking at each stand and table they briefly stopped at. Of course being into the arts nothing got their interest. "This is such a complete waste of time." Bob stated. "I agree." Cecil said in agreement. "Where are the boys?" Bob asked and Cecil pointed. "There." he said as he spotted them at a video game testing area. "Great." Bob grumbled.

Soon a voice called out "Hey there everyone and welcome to the con!" which made the brothers turn to see who it was as they both quickly recognized the voice. It was a 20 year old young man with blonde hair wearing a red shirt that had a skateboard on it, blue jeans and red sneakers who was standing on a stand area that had a big screen on it and some other equipment.

"Is that...Bart Simpson?" Bob asked with some surprise in his voice. "Appears so dear brother." Cecil replied. The two brother walked over, becoming part of the big crowd that was there.

"He certainly has changed since high school." Bob commented. "I heard that he's now a professional skateboarder." Cecil stated. "Really?" Bob asked. "Well he was always quite good on that thing." he said. "I also heard that he opened up a skate park for the children here in Springfield." Cecil added. "The boy's been busy." Bob said with a small hint of impressiveness in his voice. "Indeed." Cecil said in agreement.

"Well everyone glad to see all of you." Bart said into the microphone. "How everyone like my last game?" he asked and got many cheers for a reply. "How can he make video games?" Bob asked with skepticism in his voice. "His little girlfriend must of helped him." Cecil replied, referring to Mr. Burns' granddaughter Fiona or Fi as Bart called her. The two resident troublemakers had been going out since they were both ten and Fiona had became Bob's enemy not long after she started going out with Bart.

"That wouldn't surprise me." said Bob who knew that Fiona sometimes used her grandfather's money or resources to get what she or Bart wanted or to use against other people like Bob and even Cecil. The younger brother had devolved a grudge against the Burns' heir after she foiled Cecil's scheme to get control of the Power Plant.

"Ok, well I got a new game coming out and no it's not going to be a motion controlled one. I am not making the same dumb move as Tony Hawk." Bart said to the audience which got some laughter. "In fact this game isn't dealing with skateboarding at all." Bart added which got some of the con goers talking to each other.

"Instead this game will be dealing with some things from my childhood." Bart explained which caused Bob to raise an eyebrow. What from his childhood could of inspired Bart to make a video game of it? The screen then turned on revealing the game's title. Bob's eyes widen. The game title had his name on it and an image of him.

Bart then started to explain the game as some game footage was shown. Apprantly you had to figure out what Bob was up to in each level and stop his plan along with causing him injury by letting a rake be in his way, among other things and also pulling various pranks on him whenever he was in a public area. Bob's eyes narrowed in an angry way as he listened.

Bart then got to the bonus levels which is where the player took control of Bob and try to maneuver through a field of rakes which was easier said then done as the early game footage showed. Bob shook a bit while everyone else minus his brother laughed at what they saw.

Cecil glanced at Bob as he made his hands into a fist and got an angry, evil, murderess like look on his face. A look he hadn't had in the last four years. Cecil easily guessed what was going to happen next after seeing that and it wasn't going to be good.

Bob looked at Bart who was laughing along with the people there. 'Laugh now, Bart Simpson cause today will be the last day of your life.' the criminal genius thought to himself as he started to come up with a way to kill his arch-enemy.
:iconreadplz: :iconpointsstamp1::iconpointsstamp2: :iconreadcplz1::iconreadcplz2::iconreadcplz3:

Note: Please do not download this story unless you just plan to read it. If you want to draw a pic that deals with my fan-fic in some way (like drawing a scene from this) then you can do so as long as you credit me especially if one of my ocs is in it.

Pic credited to Schattencyra [link]

Here it is everyone. Chapter one of my 10 Years Later story A Bob Con. Sorry if it's short. I'm saving the good stuff for chapter two. Some of the stuff mentioned in this chapter (and likely in later chapters) takes place during my main Simpsons fan-fic series called New Residents which deals with Fiona's move to Springfield as well as my other ocs moving to the town for whatever reason they have. Also you may of noticed that Bart's outfit is a bit similar to his 10 year old one. I figured with the career I gave him, his sense of style wouldn't change much but at the same time wanted to show that there was some change that makes him not the same as when he was ten.

Bart Simpson, Sideshow Bob, Cecil Tewilliger and Gino Tewilliger created by Matt Groening

Fiona "Fi" Burns and William Terwilliger created by me
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                            Holidays of Future's Past

  Lisa was happy that her daughter Zia looked up to her, and was just as intelligent as she was at her age. She was worried that she would become a total party girl, and become hooked to the web. Christmas was over, it was passed midnight, and she walked to her car with her husband. They waved to her parents and brother; Bart decided to stay the night. The three of them drove off and headed for home, Lisa driving, Milhouse in the seat next to her, and Zia in the back.
  Halfway there, the car began to have trouble. Lisa turned to see Milhouse asleep, his head leaning on the window. She looked back at Zia; she had fallen asleep on the back seats. Lisa pulled the car to the side of the road and got out of the car. She opened her hood and tried to find the problem with the car. She knew it wasn't gas; the car had been filled yesterday. Lisa inspected the engine, trying to remember what Nelson had taught her. She pulled on a long clear thing, and it broke in her hand.
  "D'oh!" Lisa said. "If only Nelson were here. He'd know what to do." Nelson had become a mechanic, once again making a business where he "pimped out"  other people's vehicles. " Maybe I should call him. "
  Lisa went back to the car and got her purse. She went to her phone memory and selected "Mechanic"; Lisa had had an affair with Nelson, several in fact, cheating on her husband Milhouse. She only married him because she had gotten drunk, slept with him, and found out that she was pregnant. It was her twenty first birthday party, and it was the first time she had gotten drunk. What were the chances?
  Lisa waited for Nelson to answer, which took only a few seconds. "Lis'?" She could hear hope in his voice; he muat've that she wanted to get together.

  "Hi Nelson." Lisa felt bad for calling; she didn't want to get his hopes up about leaving Milhouse. The only reason she really married with him was because he had gotten her pregnant; she was only twenty one at the time, and raising a baby alone at such a young age would have disastrous.
  "Listen, about earlier," Nelson began, "I'm sorry if I sounded inconsiderate. It's just-"
  "Nelson," Lisa cut him off. "I'm sorry, but my car broke down, and I don't know how to fix it. Can you come by?"
  "Oh." Lisa could hear Nelson's voice crack a little. "Yeah. Sure. Where are you?"
  "I'm by Professor Frink's old place." Lisa remebered her old dates with Nelson, back they were kids, and back when she was seeing him behind Milhouses back. So he knew where it was by heart.
  "Okay. I'll be there in about thirty minutes." Lisa hung up the phone and sighed; she really did love Nelson, but she couldn't risk hurting her daughter, no matter how much she loved Nelson. She went back to the car, and put her hands in front of the heat. She looked at Professor Frinks; she wondered what had happened to him after the clone wars, when everyone in Springfield had been cloned by the aliens Kang and Kodos. Frink had disappeared, before the war, and never heard from again.
   Lisa felt her hands being cold again, and saw that her fuel gauge was empty. "Oh no." She tried to start the car, to at least have some warmth, but it wouldn't start. They couldn't wait thirty minutes in the freezing cold. She looked at Frink's house. 'I suppose we could go in there.'.
  "Milhouse wake up!" She shook her husband, trying to wake him up. He opened his eyes.
  "Are we home?" he said groggily.
  "No." Lisa brought her arm to Zia. "Zia! Wake up!"
  "We need to get out of the car." Lisa opened her door and got out. She put her head back in and took a pen and paper out of her purse, writing down they would be in Frink's old house. "The car broke down. We need to go into Professor Frink's house. Nelson's going to to pick us up."
  "What? Nelson?!!?" Milhouse was still scared of his old bully. "Why call him? Why not Bart?"
  "Because Nelson's a mechanic, and he can fix the car. Now hurry up!" The three of them walked to Frinks house. Lisa opened the door, and the three of them went in. "Nelson said he be here in half an hour. So don't complain!"
  "I'm gonna lie down." Milhouse held his coat shut, and kept on shivering. "I need to get some sleep." Milhouse went upstairs, and disappeared from Lisa's sight.
  Lisa and Zia sat down on an old couch, which was covered in dust. When they sat, dust flew into the air. "So," Lisa said, "what do you wanna talk about."
  "Nothing." Zia pulled out her ear phones, but was stopped by her mother before she could put them in, who grabbed them and put them in her pocket book. "Hey! I was gonna listen to music."
  "No! No music. It's rude to listen to music when someone's talking." Lisa closed her bag. Zia sat back on the couch, ignoring her mother's attempts at communication. They waited in silence for fifteen minutes when Zia finally got tired of the silence.
  They waited in silence for fifteen minutes when Zia finally got tired of the silence. "So what did Professor Frink invent anyway?" She had looked him up on the internet, and all she could find was that he disappeared a few years before she was born. "And what happened to him?"
  Lisa avoided the last question; everyone in Springfield had to stay quiet about what happened. Plus she really didn't know what happened to him.h
  Lisa thought of the things he built. She could only think of one in particular. "He built a time window. He showed me and your Uncle."
  "A what window?"
  "A time window." Lisa repeated. "It would lets person see into the future; it would predict what would most likely happen to that person. It also showed the past."
  "Where is it now?"
  "It's probably still in the basement." Lisa wondered if it was still operational. She would love to see her future again. "Let's go check. We can see who you marry in the future!" Lisa ran for the basement, followed closely by Zia.
  "Mom!" Zia yelled. "Wait for me!"
  They went down the stairs, which were creaked with every step. They got to the bottom and Zia looked around the room, moving her head right and left; she saw old, dusty computers, and a small window that you could see from the outside. Zia walked to it; she could see their car.
  Lisa saw the giant television like screen. It had gathered alot of dust over the years. She went to the control board and started fidgeting with some buttons. The screen came on, and showed the pasts and futures of several people. Zia looked at the screen and read some of the names aloud. " 'Cletus as President', 'Martin: Prince to Princess', 'Bart vs El Barto'? What are these, futures or t.v. episodes of a twenty year old animated sitcom?"
  "They're real. Trust me. Frink just put them in a way that people would be entertained." Lisa went to the search area and type in her daughters name, and came across she would like very much to see. " 'Zia's Wedding'!! Let's watch!!"
   "No!" Zia grabbed her mother's hand before she could click on it. "Maybe I don't wanna know who I marry!"
  "Why not?" Lisa asked. "What if he's a real hunk?" Lisa said that last part with a bit of a laugh.
  "A real hunk?" Zia couldn't believe her mother had just said that. "No one says 'hunk' anymore Mom! And besides, I wanna be surprised. If you're so interested, let's look at your future.". Zia moved her mother's hand off the mouse and typed in her mother's name.
  Zia scrolled down on the screen, looking for an interesting future. She clicked on one labeled 'Lisa's Second Baby'; it was dated for 3 years from now. "I'm gonna have a sibling?" She said out loud.
  Lisa looked at the screen, and trembled, remembering the pain she suffered from having Zia; she didn't want to take the drugs they offered her, as she knew the risks for her baby. She looked at the screen as it showed her future.
  She was lying on a hospital bed, giving birth, screaming her lungs out. Doctor Hibert was delivering the baby, and there was no man next to her, only nurses and her mother. 'Milhouse isn't there, again,' Lisa thought;  he wasn't there for Zia's birth either, being too scared to come in. She screamed, asking if the baby was out yet. Lisa heard a screaming baby; she felt her future self's relief.
  Doctor Hibber handed her her baby and turned to a nurse. "Tell the father he can come in now. The gross part is over. A hee hee hee!" The nurse opened the window, and Milhouse walked in, looking green and close to throwing up.
  He walked to Lisa and the baby. "Hey there Milhouse Junior." The baby had his father's blue hair. " I think this one is gonna look like me." The screen went black.

  Lisa and Zia looked at the screen. Zia groaned. "Great. A brother. It couldn't be a sister, could it?"
  "Oh, come on," Lisa argued."Brother's aren't so bad. I mean, look at Bart."
  "And look at Maggie." Zia liked her aunt better than she did her uncle. "She's a rock star."
  A creak from the ceiling caught their attention. "Lis'?" someone yelled. It was Nelson.
  "Nelson, I'm down here! I'm coming up!" Lisa yelled. She turned to Zia. " Stay here. I'll be back in a few minutes." Zia watched her mother run up the stairs, leaving her alone in the basement. She could tell they were talking, but couldn't hear what about. She heard something about a clear tube.
  Zia walked to the time window, deciding to see more of the future. It couldn't hurt after all. She decided to look at her mother's future. She typed in her mother's name, Lisa Simpson; her mother kept surname, and she herself had her mother's last name.
   She scrolled through the options until she came across one that made her heart ache; 'Lisa's heartbreak'. Zia clicked on it, and she watched. She noticed the date on the screen; 12/31/2041. 'This is a few days,' Zia thought. The screen came on, showing Zia The Hibbert's house; they always hosted a new years party.

  Lisa was standing on a balcony, watching fireworks go off. Zia was with friends, and Milhouse was home, still sick feeling sick from Christmas. Lisa turned around when she heard someone behind her. It was Nelson Muntz.
  "Nelson." Lisa walked over to him and kissed him on the lips, though he didn't kiss back. "What's wrong?"

  "Mom?" Zia couldn't believe what she was seeing; her mother was cheating on her father! She never thought her mother would do something like this!

  Lisa tried to kiss Nelson again, but he dodged it. "What's wrong honey?" Lisa took Nelson's hand and guided him towards the edge of the balcony. "Why won't you kiss me?"
  Nelson looked at the fireworks. "This isn't working Lis'." He leaned on the railing. "You can't keep doing this to me. It's been seven years, and we keep on doing this; you're marriage has been dead and fulfilled ever since it started, and you run to me more comfort. Well I can't do it anymore!" Nelson yelled the last sentence out.
  "What do you mean?" Lisa sounded hurt. "You're breaking up with me?"
  "Yes Lis'." Nelson looked back inside. "You're never gonna leave that loser Milhouse, and I need someone who will be with me always, not just when she can make it." Nelson started to walk back inside.
  "You know I can't leave him! I can't make Zia go through something like that, you know that!" Lisa began to cry, and wrapped her arms around Nelson's chest before he could open the glass door. "Please Nelson. Don't do this to me."
  "I'm sorry, babe." Nelson fought back shedding tears. "I love you, but I just can't do this anymore." He grabbed Lisa's hand and pulled them apart, walking back inside and leaving the party.
  Lisa staggered back into the railing, falling to her kness, and began to cry uncontrollably. The screen faded to Lisa's crying.

  Zia couldn't believe what she had just watched. Her mother was cheating on her father; for seven years!! Zia knew her mother and father werent the best married couple, but she never thought her mother would do such a thing.
  But Zia only thought of how sad her mother had gotten when Nelson had told her that he was leaving her, stopping their affair. Did she really love him that much? Zia went to the window she had seen earlier, wanting to see what was happening between her mother and Nelson. She saw the two of them standing next to her mother's car, embraced in each others arms, kissing.
  Zia walked back to the time window and scrolled through her mother's futures. She watched several, all of them showing her as an unhappy woman, stuck with someone she didn't love. She didn't know what to do. She didn't want her mother to live a miserable life with a man she didn't love. But she didn't want her father to get hurt, either; he worships her. What should she do?

  Lisa came back down to tell Zia that Nelson was going to take the car to his garage, and that he would give them a lift home. They drove in awkward silence. Nelson dropped them off and they went inside. Lisa stayed to, 'Give him gas money.', though Zia spied on her though a window, and saw them kiss each other.
  Lisa came in to Zia tapping her foot. Milhouse had gone to bed the minute he got home, leaving the two of them able to talk without him knowing.
  "Why aren't you in your room, Zia?" Lisa asked. Zia spent most of her time in her room, in the internet, so it surprised Lisa to see her standing in the living room.
  "Mom, we need to talk." Zia had gone over how she was going to do this in her head on the way home.
  "What about honey?" Lisa was worried that she might've done something stupid, such as get pregnant. "Is something wrong?"
  Zia sat on the couch, and Lisa sat next to her. "I know about you and Nelson," she said simply.
  Lisa paled at that. She started to stammer, trying to say something, but not knowing what to say.
  "I know you've been cheating on Dad with him. And I know that you love him."
  Lisa didn't know what to say. She composed herself and began to talk, slowly, trying to find the right words. "Zia. This may be hard for you to understand, but I'm not in love with your father anymore; I still love him, but not like I used to."
  "I know, Mom." Zia looked down at the ground.
  "How did you find out?" Lisa asked. "I've been very discreet about us."
  "I found out through the time window' I wanted to see your future, and I saw one called 'Lisa's Heartbreak'."
  Lisa looked at her with a puzzled look. "'Heartbreak?"
  "Yeah. It showed you standing on a balcony at The Hibberts, during their New Years Party. Nelson was there, and he ened your affair. He said that he couldn't do it anymore, that you had to leave Dad or he would stop seeing you."
  "He did." Lisa was beginning to get worried even more.  
  "You said you couldn't because of me, that going through a divorce and leaving Dad would have been unfair to me. You cried when he left. I checked your other futures, and you were miserable, in a loveless marriage that got worse as the years went on." Zia took a deep breath. "I want you to leave Dad."
  Lisa was shocked. She wasn't expecting any of this; she expected her daughter to hate her for doing this to the family, to tell to stop seeing Nelson. But not this. "You want me to leave him?"
  "Yes." Zia looked her mother in eyes. "I'll be fine; I can handle what happens between you two, but I can't see you live a long, miserable life with Dad if you can live a happy one Nelson."
  Lisa began to cry. She couldn't believe her daughter could be so selfless. She had wanted to be with Nelson for years, but couldn't bring herself to hurt her family. "Okay." Lisa's voice cracked. She hugged Zia in a lung crushing hug. "Thank you, Zia. Thank you."

  Lisa stood on the balcony in The Hibbert's house. She was with Nelson; she had told him that she was going to leave Milhouse and be with him, stopping him from ending their relationship. Lisa had already explained things to Milhouse. He didn't like it; he cried when she told him; but he agreed to get a divorce in the end.
  The two planned to get married as soon as possible. Bart was happy for them; he knew Lisa was happier with Nelson than she was with Milhouse. Marge and Homer also approved; they didn't like the thought of their eldest daughter having an unhappy marriage with Milhouse.
  LIsa and Nelson stood on the balcony, waiting for the new year to start. They knew in their hearts that this year was going to be the best one out the many that were to come.
This is my entry for the NelsonxLisa Holidays Fanfic Contest. When I saw the episode, I was mad that Lisa ended up with Milhouse. But I remembered how they showed her frowning when she married him. I also remembered the way that Lisa asks Bart if she should have married Nelson, saying she still talked to him. She also implies that she is the one who calls him, rather him calling her.
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"Uuuggghh...." Groaned a young, hungover redhead as he pushed back his long bangs. 'I should really stop accepting Benders drinking challenges...' He thought to himself as he leant back in his chair and ruffled his hair some more.

"You should really get a haircut, Fry." Stated Leela rather bluntly as she scrunched up her nose in distaste and tugged at his hair.

"Yeah, Fry... If you want I once slept with a hairdresser so I can get you in for cheaper!" Amy chirped excitedly as she flipped open her phone.

Fry looked between them both, sighed and then shrugged, "I don't know..." he started with uncertainty. "Hey, Bender..." He said slowly as he span in his chair to face his dozing, robotic best friend. "What do you think? Do you think I should get a hair cut?" He asked, pulling at his long locks with a questionable look.

Bender glared at his hair, stated a sharp "I don't care." Then stood from his chair and stormed out the room.

Fry stared after him with a rather puppy-like expression.

Leela sighed beside him, "Bender really is starting to worry me..."

Fry nodded and looked back toward the door Bender just left through, "yeah..." he mumbled quietly before spinning back round and slumping onto the table.

"Fry!" Leela growled angrily with a swift kick in his side. "Don't just sit there! Go after him! And don't you dare come back until he feels better. Got it? Good." She quickly commanded before picking him up out of his chair, shoving him forward and kicking him square in the ass and out the door.

Fry hissed in pain as he picked himself up and rubbed his backside. He sighed annoyed as he looked around, already giving up. His shoulders sagged as he pulled his sluggish form down the long corridors of the planet express, and poked his head into every room. "Ah Bender isn't anywhere around!" He exclaimed in annoyance.

But, just as he was about to give up completely and head off to the employee lounge for a quick beer and nap, an oddly melodic whistling tune came flowing in from the small supply closet down the hall. 'Bender!' Fry yelled out internally, obviously excited that he'd managed to find him and ran for the door.

He leapt the last few steps and landed with a soft thud just short of the door. He took a quick, deep breath before reaching down toward the handle. "Huh...?" He mumbled quietly as he stopped his fingers on the handle. His ears had only just pricked up and noticed how the melodic whistling had somehow become extraordinarily melancholy. It didn't take but a few mere seconds for that whistling to turn to quiet sobs.

Fry's heart sank and his fingers shook around the handle. He took a deep breath, swallowed hard and threw himself into the room.

Fry picked himself up and stared down at the silver Mexican. The silence soon grew heavy as Bender glared back up at him, his large robotic eyes looking absurdly puppy-like.

"Bender...Are you...?" Fry's speech trailed off into a low groan as he pulled his fingers through his lengthy bangs and kicked he closest box. And then hissed in pain as he leapt backwards and hit his head on yet another box.

Bender couldn't help but laugh at the huge sack of meat's stupidity.

"Ah, so you haven't lost you sense of humour then." Fry said with a smile as he lifted an empty box of his head.

Bender huffed and spun round on his box so that only his back was facing Fry.

Fry sighed and sat next to him on the box, "Bender..." He started as he looped his arm around the cold shoulders of his metallic best friend. "Are you okay?" Fry asked in a quiet and very concerned voice.

Instantly, the robot lost all will to fight and sagged against his friend. "Yeah..." he mumbled, "now."

Fry didn't really get what he meant but was just happy that Bender was okay again now. Fry quickly laughed, smiled wide and threw his arms around the big lump of metal excitedly, exclaiming loudly "Yay!"

"Now how about we get some beer in you eh?" Fry joked as he stood slowly started pulling himself away from the robot.

"...Nah not just yet" Bender groaned as he pulled Fry back into him and snuggled closer to his squishy chest.

"Hey! I'm not some pillow!" Fry complained as he wiggled uncomfortably.

"Shut up, yes you are. Now stop wiggling!" Bender commanded bluntly as he leant in harder in order to keep the stupid meatsack still.

Fry sagged, defeated. "Fiiine" he sighed, making sure to really drag it out.

He may have looked fed up on the outside as the heavy metal robot lay in his lap. But inside he was laughing happily that his bestest friend was finally back to normal. Okay, and just a little on the outside too.
So yeah this is some pooy cutey fender foooor~ :iconqueen-of-insanity:



I'm very, very, very, veeerrry sorry this is so late! I really did write this a while ago! And I reeeally did mean to post this aaaages ago! But I have been very sicky and over worked lately! But I hope you like this piece of poop I wrote for you! :D I also drew you a picture but my scanner still wont work -sigh- LOVE YOU! <3 -tackleglomps-

Fry and all other characters are respectfully owned by Matt Groening
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"The night was darker than usual, colder than usual and down right spooky." A calm voice dramatised in recall of a particularly 'heroic' tale. Or so he says.

But the young red-head had his doubts. His unconsciously rose his eyebrows and rolled his eyes in a disbelieving fashion. The large blonde in front of him pouted and he couldn't help but sigh, yet again. "Really, Zapp... you say all these stories and none of them ever check out to be remotely true." The read-head moaned, groaning even louder at how very 'Leela' he just sounded.

Zapp's pout turned into a childish frown, "B-but...I thought you liked my stories?" He turned his big blue eyes up at Fry.

Fry couldn't help but think 'cheater' as he stared at the pathetic excuse for a man in front of him. "Ugh. Let's just go get a beer. I wonder if Benders back yet..." Fry thought aloud.

"Oh! Ah...Er...No! The robot that...thing. Yes. Leela told me he'd be away all day and night and maybe tomorrow too. Er yes. Ah-ha." Zapp spluttered out nervously.

Fry stared at him for a moment and then shrugged, a simple "Whatever" being his parting words as he left the planet express staff room, a blonde in tow.

Leela watched the two leave, sighed and rolled her eyes towards Amy. "God. Sometimes its hard to figure out who's a bigger idiot." The Cyclops snorted a laugh. Amy giggled and nodded in response as she flipped back a piece of hair and blew a kiss to her reflection.

Bender entered, back from stealin- er, acquiring- things from the ship after their last mission. He stopped in his tracks, eyeing the room before turning an accusing gaze to Leela. "Where's Fry gone?" He asks, a soft sort of whine to his voice. Leela simply shrugs and Bender takes it as a fair answer, shrugging in reply before he whistled and headed back out the way he came, guessing he may as well make use of the time.

Fry's whole body shuddered as a cold shiver ran up his spine. "Brr! This winter sure is cold" He mumbled, mostly to himself.

"Mm, sure is." Zapp agreed as he rubbed his hands together, blowing some warm air into them.

They brief break of silence quickly faded and the heavy weight of hush rushed in to fill its place.

Zapp found himself staring hard, his brow furrowed and his lips tight as he watched the youthful ginger walk a few steps ahead of him, his head surely full of that robot. Zap shook his head in attempt to rid himself of those oddly depressing thoughts.

Fry turned to him, his face plastered with confusion, "You alight?" He asked in earnest.

Zapp laughed, nervousness shaking it, his eyes darted side to side in an obviously conspicuous fashion that only a real idiot could miss. "Nothing...just redoing my hair. You know how the ladies love it." He purred in an almost convincing silky, sexy voice as he brushed his smooth hands through his slicked back blonde lock, his smile already beginning to fall.

Fry smiled back at him. "Yeah, yeah." He laughed, and ran a hand through his own hair.

'Dear god it's a good thing he's so dumb.' Zapp smiled to himself, Zapp didn't even notice the reflexive sigh that spilled from his lips.

Fry was feeling unusually conscious and quirked his eyebrow in speculation. Zapp smiled, his award winning, pearly white, devilish smile. Fry smiled back at him, his goofy, toothy, cheap smile that was always rich with happiness.

Zapp's heart could do nothing but melt as he looked deeply into the eyes of his youthful companion. "Hey, Fry..." Zap started but stopped himself as he realised he didn't have any words. The red-head simply looked up at him and his smile widened in anticipation.

"Yeah...? Oh! Actually, before you say anything, can you do me a favour?" Fry asked, a sheepish look about him.

"Huh? Yes, of course soldier, what is it?" Zapp asked looking down his nose awkwardly at the male.

", I don't really wanna go to out tonight...I'm feeling rather, er, tired. Yeah. Sorry." Fry's sentence was fragmented, awkward and he was blushing. Zapp had to bite his lip to stop himself from cooing at the cuteness of his male counterpart.

"Sure thing. How about we go to my apartment?" Zapp purred reflexively as he finished his sentence.

Fry just laughed. "You are far too used to saying that...but it would be awesome." Fry joked and smiled as he slapped Zapp on the back, "Cheers buddy."

Zapp fell forward slightly from the unexpected slap but quickly corrected himself as him mouth twitched onto an awkward smile. "Then, please follow me." Zapp finished before turning on his heels 180 degrees and led the way to his luxurious apartment. Fry immediately followed obediently.

Zapp's palms began to sweat, his brow began to furrow and his heart began to race.  Dear God what was he going to do. For all the years he had known this buffoon he had always found his complete incompetence endearing. Even when he would do stupid, stupid things that should have killed him it was amazing.

It was tough but he really did love the retard.

But there was absolutely no way that the young red-head would ever return his sweet and incredibly lustful feelings. Because, all though he was living in the wonderful future where gay people were common thing and no-one even blinked an eye, Fry was not. Fry was from long ago where gays had next to no rights. In fact, Fry had once quite clearly expressed his distaste towards male on male when Zapp had last smacked him on the arse and Fry had told him off rather severely.

So it really could get dangerous if he had Fry in his home, especially an intoxicated one at that. He really couldn't be sure if he could and would keep his hands to himself and not take advantage of the opportunity.

Zapp sighed as he fumbled about with the key in his coat pocket, mulling over the thought in his head again and again.

"Zapp...?" Fry implored, looking at him with eyes way too cute and innocent for any male, let-alone one his age.

"Ah yes sorry, the key just got tangled with a thread" Zapp lied lamely as he slowly pulled his keys free from the safety of his pockets. An earnestly sullen look deepening on his face.

"Zapp, are you really okay? I mean I can go if you- Ah." Fry's apologetic and concerned ramblings were cut off as he attempted and barely succeed in catching the can of beer that was tossed at his face.

"Nah, I'm alright... but I know I'll be better after I get a couple of beers in me." Zapp joked before he chugged back the whole can.

"Cool!" Fry exclaimed before doing the same and tossing the can behind him and grabbing another.

'Maybe I can get so drunk I forget who I and he is...and my feelings towards the latter. Oh god.' Zapp hoped to himself as he knocked back two to Fry's every one.

It was about 1am when Zapp last looked at the clock and that was a good few shots ago. He was so drunk he was pretty numb but still not too numb to feel the heat rising throughout his whole body as watched a piece of saliva roll down Fry's chin. God, what Zapp would give to be able to lick it.

"A-ah Zapp! What are you doing?!" Fry asked in slurring shock.

"Huh?...Oh." In Zapp's drunken state what he thought, he ended up doing. His tongue was now travelling up Fry's reddened cheeks. A slick smile curled around Zapp's lips and his eyes narrowed deviously until his whole face screamed down right sex appeal.

Fry gulped."Er... Brannigan....?" he asked in a nervous whisper, his voice notching up a few octaves.

"Shh" Zapp's right mind had up and left him for good Fry decided as the larger man hushed him and placed a fat, long finger over his lips. But that wasn't what worried him, it was the hum and the finger pulling at his lips as the face grew ever nearer to his that really worried him.

Fry squirmed under the oddly muscular man. He couldn't help but question how and when Zapp had climbed onto of him to pin him down. "Za-AH!" Fry yelped just before the lips attacked his own roughly and sloppily.

All of a sudden Zapp's eyes shot open, his big blue eyes met those of Fry's and they exchanged a confused, and slightly frightened, look. Zapp's eyes zoned in on where their lips met and then back up at Fry's eyes and then pulled away. That kiss had entirely sobered him up due to shock. His wits slowly trudged back to him and told him the true severity of what he had just done.

"I...Oh my...I...ugh" Zapp had to catch himself before his whimperes turned to sobs and he flung himself across the room and spun around so he couldn't look into the confused and frightened eyes of the little red-head he had just jumped.  "You should leave." Zapp managed out in as masculine a voice as he could muster, barely choking back his feminine side.

He heard soft shuffling behind him and assumed that was Fry getting himself together ready to leave. 'Good...' he mumbled inwardly. He slowly turned himself around and sighed. "Huh?"He gasped as small arms threw themselves around his neck and thin lips attached to his own.

After what seemed like all eternity but was, in actuality, a mere minute or so, Fry pulled himself slowly away from Zapp. His lips were parted, he was panting slightly and his face was bright red. He looked cuter than ever. "Please don't cry..." Fry mumbled, seemingly to himself.

Zapp wrapped his arms tightly around the smaller man's waist and hoisted him into himself. "How could I possibly?" Zapp purred into Fry's burning ears.
This is for :iconsof-sof: who requested a Frapp fanfic~!
And because she is super wonderful I couldn't decline!!
Oh and because I'm sorta obsessed with Frapp too *cough* LOLWHUT.
Oh and my deary, I'm terribly sorry its not very good and took AGES to come out ...but YAY its here right? XD
ENJOY~~! <333

Fry, Zapp and all other characters are respectfully owned by Matt Groening
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Title: Cold heart
Series: The Simpsons
Pairing: SkinnerXEdna, slight NedXEdna and NedXMaude

A snow storm woke her up. It was the third time this week Edna had woken up at the middle of the night because of the sound of the sound of the cold winds.
How she hated winters now.
She remembered how Skinner used to take her ice-skating on winters back when they were together and that made her hate them even more.
She looked at her husband sleeping next to her. He was mumbling her name, again… third time that week. Every time she woke up in the middle of the night she heard him calling Maude in his sleep. She sighed as she went back to sleep, being only able to stay awake the rest of the night.
The following morning he brought her breakfast to bed. It was Saturday, and Rodd and Todd were out already playing in the snow.
“Good morning, love” he happily greeted her as he kissed her forehead and handed her breakfast.
“Good morning Ned…”
“What´s wrong, honey?” he asked, sitting next to her.
“You were mumbling in your sleep again” she simply replied.
He immediately understood what she meant.
“I´m… I´ve just been tired from the week, so…”
She cut him off before he finished.
“Ned, it´s not just it. Every night I hear the same thing…” she tried not to cry “Ned, do you still love Maude?”
She knew he couldn´t lie. And he didn´t lie. Ned looked at the floor, unable to face her.
“Yes…” he simply answered.
“Ned, can you promise you´ll forget her?”
She wasn´t sure if she wanted to know the answer, but her hope soon died.
She swallowed hard, fighting the tears that were starting to form in her eyes.
“I´m sorry Edna… Maude was… Maude is still my wife. She´s gone now, but she´s still the one I truly love. I can´t promise you her spot in my heart…”
The words burned in her throat before she even spoke.
“Then Ned… I think we can´t be anymore…”

That night seemed colder than normal. The park was silent and deserted.
In a way, it was better for Edna. She was sitting alone, so no one could see how she was…
Hours ago, she had talked to Ned and his sons. Ned helped her getting her things back to her house, and he agreed with their divorce. He even offered to help her with anything she needed, being as kind as usual. Deep down, she knew he´d never love her like he loved Maude. For a moment she wondered if she had actually loved him. Their breakup was a little painful, more for her than for him, and she remembered how Skinner was pained with their own breakup.
She pulled a cigar as she looked at the snow covering the park.
“You really should stop smoking; those things are bad for you” a familiar voice told her.
She looked to see it was Skinner as he sat next to her.
“What do you want?” she asked coldly.
“I wanted to see how you were doing.”
“What, so you´re stalking me now?” she asked not hiding her anger.
“No” he simply answered “I went to the school to work on some papers and I got out a little later. I was passing through here when I saw you here alone. I know you enough to tell there´s something wrong… I´m worried about you.”
“I appreciate your gesture, but I think I´m old enough to watch my back!” she replied, trying to hide her urge to talk to him and let him comfort her. She had never forgot him, even with the hurt he caused her.
“Yet, here you are alone in the cold so late at night. If you don´t want me here I´ll go, but I just want you to know I´m not helping you for any interest.”
He waited for her answer, and after some minutes in silence she finally spoke.
“I´m getting divorced. Ned didn´t love me.”
She tried to find any expression on his face.
“I´m sure you´re happy now but---“
“No, I´m not” he cut her off “I can´t be happy if you´re sad, because I still love you.”
“No you don´t. You just---“
“I do” he cut her off again “I know with all my strength I do. If you don´t love me, that´s different, but I never stopped loving you.”
She finally lost it. She got up, tears running across her face a she shouted, letting ou all her anger.
“THEN WHY? WHY DID YOU DO THAT TO ME? You hurt me so much! Why did you leave me?” she cried as he got up to face her “Why?”
He hugged her, and he was surprised she didn´t pull away or slapped him.
“I´m sorry, Edna… I know I was a jerk… I was so scared of screwing up I ended up ruining everything… I know you don´t deserve me, but can you ever forgive me?”
She knew he was serious.
“I´m so sorry… I… I love you so much… what I´ve done haunts me every night” he told.
She looked him in his eyes, and she saw how he truly regretted it.
“Seymour… I still have feelings for you… ”
“Then… will you give me a second chance? Please…” he begged her.
She gave him a kiss as her answer. And he gladly kissed her back.
“My love... you just made me the happiest man on earth” he whispered.
The Simpsons belong to Matt Groening
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A Short Story taking place during and within the world of a novel project I have been working on and have been toying with a title for.

If it doesn't load in browser, use the download button on the right.
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Jak napisać romans paranormalny

Trafiło się nam żyć w takich czasach, że napisanie poczytnej książki tudzież bloga jest łatwiejsze niż kiedykolwiek— wystarczy być człowiekiem jako tako piśmiennym, mieć Worda i dostęp do internetów. Niestety, ta jakże piękna idea równości wobec tworzenia literatury rozbiła się o kant dupy w momencie, gdy światło dzienne ujrzał Zmierzch. Niejaka Stefa M., gospodyni domowa, matka trojga dzieci, absolutnie nienastawiona na robienie kariery, spisuje swój sen, tworząc na jego kanwie jeden z największych bestsellerów w historii literatury — może być coś bardziej motywującego? Wszak ludzie lecą na takie kopciuszkowe historie.

Jak bardzo Bellissima, Eduardo i Alpaka przemówili do rzesz czytelników można się przekonać przechadzając się po Empiku i zachodząc do działu literatury młodzieżowej. Poczciwi Ania Shirley i Harry Potter zostali wyparci przez posępne, blade dziewoje lokujące swe uczucia w wampirach, wilkołakach, upadłych aniołach i innych nadnaturalnych przyjemniaczkach. Niemal każdy cykl tego typu, o czym by nie traktował, jest obwoływany bestsellerem przez czołowe pisma amerykańskie, a dziewczęta w okresie adolescencji przepuszczają nań ciężkie pieniądze (rodziców). Zatem — dlaczego by nie? Wystarczy napisać powieść, której esencją jest jęczenie nastolatki, że jej wybranek ssie, a sława i pieniądze są jedynie kwestią czasu.
Jako niedzielny ekspert wampiryczny (tzn. taki był mój temat na maturze) oraz literat-amator, podjęłam się stworzenia przepisu na taki paranormal romance. Jak się przekonacie, napisanie tego typu powieści jest tylko odrobinę trudniejsze niż stworzenie onetowego blogaska, więc, do dzieła!


1. Nie możesz być byle kim, skoro zabierasz się do pisania paranormala. Sprawdź najpierw, czy pasujesz do którejś z grup autorów tego nurtu:
  • debiutujące nastolatki/studentki (te projektują na papier swoje mokre sny i fascynację Zmierzchem)
  • trzydziestoletnie kobiety sukcesu zawodowo zajmujące się pisarstwem (te chcą wpisać się w modny nurt, by uskrobać trochę grosza, ewentualnie taniej popularności)
  • freakowate damy w mocno średnim wieku (te również projektują na papier swoje mokre sny i fascynację Zmierzchem, a przy okazji skrobią trochę grosza i taniej popularności)
  • jeżeli jesteś mężczyzną, możesz wstrzelić się w jednoprocentowy odsetek Rodzynków — jednak Twoje pisarstwo prawdopodobnie nie będzie pasować do głównego nurtu, bowiem  z racji Twojej płci, nie będzie u Ciebie słodkopierdzącego opisu wiecznej miłości, a więcej strzelanin i ostrego seksu na maskach samochodów. Sorry, dude.

2. Wymyśl tytuł serii. Zazwyczaj powinien nawiązywać do czegoś fajnego i mrocznego: faz księżyca, kamieni szlachetnych, cech bohaterki, części utworu muzycznego itd.

3. Rozplanuj poszczególne tomy serii. Żelazną zasadą są minimum trzy — jeden to za mało, a dwa wyglądają dziwnie na półce. Najbardziej pożądaną ilością jest siedem (wszak to liczba magiczna), a jeżeli tomy są cienkie i szybko się je czyta, około trzynastu.

4.Wymyśl tytuły dla każdego tomu. W nawiązaniu do tytułu serii, oczywiście. Tytuły są zbitką pompatycznych rzeczowników/przymiotników do których dodaje się noc/mrok/cień/księżyc/pocałunek/dotyk. Tytuły niekoniecznie muszą odnosić się do fabuły.


1.Wszystko zależy od tego, kto jest twoim odbiorcą. Paranormalne romanse czytają głównie dziewczęta w wieku 11-18 lat, czasami wiek ten obejmuje studentki, a czasem nawet matki — są to jednak o wiele szczuplejsze grupy niż nastolatki. Dlatego to o nich i ich oczekiwaniach musisz myśleć, jeżeli decydujesz się na pisanie paranormala. Niektórzy mogą ci zarzucić, że żerujesz na niewinnych marzeniach dorastających dziewczynek i wpajasz im zupełnie nierealną wizję świata, ale absolutnie się tym nie przejmuj.

2. Przede wszystkim musisz odpowiedzieć na pragnienie miłości romantycznej, różniącej się od typowego związku gimbusów: z fascynującym, dojrzalszym niż rówieśnicy partnerem, który wchodzi niejako w rolę opiekuna i który przedkłada uczucia nad seks (albo jest obietnicą bezpiecznego seksu w przyszłości). Partner taki wyróżnia się inteligencją, klasą, obyciem i wyglądem, oraz daje nieustanne oznaki zainteresowania.

3. Taką obietnicą jest też partner pociągający i niebezpieczny, który gwarantuje dreszcz emocji, ucieczkę od rutyny dnia codziennego i dużo zmysłowych rozkoszy. Wszystko jednak jest kontrolowane i nikt tu nie doznaje krzywdy (fizycznej, bo czasem kochanek strzeli focha i porzuci na pół roku).

4. Równie ważne jest często występujące poczucie niezrozumienia, wyobcowania tudzież pogardy dla plebsu. Także  łatwe do nakarmienia zawieszenie między fantastycznym światem dzieciństwa a twardym światem dorosłych.

5. Naturalny lęk przed śmiercią daje szczególne pole do popisu, zwłaszcza w budowaniu pośmiertnych losów bohaterów i wizji życia pozagrobowego. Szczególnie ceniona jest 'nowatorskość', czyli zupełna ignorancja w dziedzinie teologii i antropologii. Dlatego też nikt od ciebie nie wymaga, by od twoich bohaterów dało się czuć smrodek rozkładu.

6. Teraz zrób research i zbierz motywy, które pojawią się w twojej powieści. Skoro to romans paranormalny, musisz osadzić tenże romans w jakiejś fantastycznej otoczce, ergo, sięgnąć do mitów, świętych ksiąg, legend miejskich sąsiadki spod trójki etc. To wbrew pozorom nie jest nudne i żmudne. Tego typu pisarstwo na szczęście nie wymaga wielogodzinnego przeglądania Ilustrowanego Kuriera Codziennego z lat 1910-1918 — Wikipedia w pełni wystarczy. Dla ułatwienia, oto najpopularniejsze motywy:
  • mitologia grecka — świat albo jest osadzony w realiach greckich mitów, albo jakoś do niego nawiązujący, zazwyczaj objawia się to w istnieniu Hadesu
  • mitologia hebrajska/wierzenia chrześcijańskie — akcja rozgrywa się na ziemi zawieszonej między niebem a piekłem, a bohaterami są anioły, upadłe anioły i diabły, rzadziej Nefilim. W tym przypadku któraś z postaci musi mieć na imię Lilith albo Gabriel
  • motywy wampiryczne — punktem wyjścia jest czwarta fala powieści wampirycznej, czyli Tłajlajt. Brak nawiązań do klasycznego wizerunku wampira lub usilne od niego odbieganie, przy czym pierwsza opcja jest bardziej ceniona, bo to nowatorstwo i wgl: ograniczone picie krwi (lub wręcz zaniechanie tego), uczucia wyższe, co objawia się ględzeniem jeszcze bardziej monotonnym niż Louisa. Obowiązkowo ładne lico i tyłek
  • wątki drakuliczne/trącące Rumunami — wplatane zazwyczaj dla jaj: szkoła imienia świętego Vladimira, egzotyczny kochanek o imieniu Roman, główna zła o imieniu Elżbieta
  • motywy baśniowe — magiczna wyspa Różowości i Puszystości z harcującymi wróżkami.

Język i styl pisania

1. Język ma być prosty, z trzech powodów. Primo, nikt w dzisiejszych czasach nie fatyguje się, by korzystać ze słownika. Secundo, pamiętaj, że najważniejsza jest tu ilość tomów, a nie jakość — wymyślanie nazbyt finezyjnych porównań odechce ci się po dziesiątym tomie. Tertio, nikt od ciebie tego nie oczekuje — później będziesz chwalony za „przystępny i prosty język, przez co szybko się czyta", nawet jeśli wynika on z braku umiejętności.

2. Nie przejmuj się zanadto swoją dysleksją czy dysortografią. W końcu piszesz w Wordzie z opcją autokorekty. Ponadto wszelkie błędy zostaną już poprawione przy edycji w wydawnictwie.

3. Nie zapominaj jednak, że mimo prostego języka, musisz wykładać nim prawdy wieczne i stałe — najlepiej takie, które idealnie nadają się na cycat, tfu, cytat. Najlepiej, by odnosiły się do przeszłości, miłości i przeznaczenia. Coelhizmy mile widziane, ale czasem Mądrość może być głęboko ironiczna.
Kilka przykładowych Mądrości:
  • Inne dziewczyny chodziły wieczorami na randki, ja wieczorami polowałam na istoty z piekła rodem.
  • Dopóki go nie spotkałam, nie żyłam naprawdę — to było tak, jakbym cały ten czas spędziła, obijając się o ściany jakiegoś labiryntu, idąc z rezygnacją naprzód, i czasem sobie tylko przypominając, że gdzieś tam musi być wyjście. A gdy zobaczyłam go po raz pierwszy, czułam się, jakbym znalazła drogę, odnalazła samą nić Ariadny.
  • Nie mogę ci powiedzieć, że będę kochał cię do ostatniego uderzenia serca, bo ono przestało bić pięćset lat temu. Mogę ci tylko obiecać, że będę kochał cię wiecznie.
  • Och nie, pomyślała. To kolejny napalony wampir! Czy nie ma już wilkołaków, choćby nienapalonych?

Fabuła i kontekst

Zasadniczo każda książka powinna je mieć, lepsze lub gorsze — coś w końcu musi być tłem dla wiecznej miłości bohaterów (tudzież seksu). Pisząc romans paranormalny, nomen omen masz już gotowy temat — nie trzeba więc zbytnio rozplanowywać powieści, np. spróbować zamknąć jej treść w jednym zdaniu i później stopniowo je rozbudowywać, aż wyjdzie zarys fabuły. Wystarczy, że osadzisz bohaterów w jakimś miejscu i doprowadzisz do tego, by jakoś się spotkali.

1. Akcja powinna dziać się na jakimś wypizdówku. Małe miasteczka od zarania dziejów są znakomitą scenerią do niesamowitych wydarzeń — patrz Twin Peaks i wszystkie programy na Polsat Crime. Chyba że twoich bohaterowie będą fabuluśni i elitarni, w takim wypadku koniecznością jest umieszczenie ich w wielkim amerykańskim mieście. A jeżeli zdecydujesz się na rodzime grunty, Warszawa w zupełności wystarczy.

2. Ergo, wydarzenia mają miejsce zazwyczaj w świecie rzeczywistym — cały myk polega na tym, by wpuścić doń autorski strumyk fantazji i stworzyć egzystujący obok drugi świat: pozagrobowy lub fantastyczny.

3. Osią fabuły powinno być odkrywanie tego nierealnego świata. Bardziej staroświecki bohater zrobi to empirycznie, na warunki obecne powinno wystarczyć Google.

4. Dobrze to odkrywanie zacząć od serii dziwacznych snów, których bohater nie rozumie (za to czytelnik jak najbardziej), a które zwiastują Wielką Zmianę w jego życiu: prawdę o pochodzeniu/niesamowite przyszłe wypadki/ przybycie Truloffa (względnie Truloffki).

5. Tudzież rozpocząć można od żelaznego punktu z poradników pisarskich „zacznij od przyjazdu": główny protagonista z przyczyn losowych jest zmuszony przeprowadzić się z wielkiego miasta do wspomnianego wypizdówka.

6. Punktem wyjścia zawsze może być też śmierć głównego bohatera — jest ona początkiem nowego życia (patrz ostatni podpunkt Treści) i tym bardziej wymaga zapoznania się z nowym światem dookoła, co później ułatwi relację z Truloffem. Pamiętaj, że prawda o własnej śmierci dochodzi do człowieka znacznie później niż zorientowanie się, że przed pogrzebem założył mu ktoś chujowe buty.

7. Mając początek, można przejść do mniej lub bardziej konkretnych wydarzeń. Oto zapisane w schematach najpopularniejsze sposoby prowadzenia akcji:
  • Ona spotyka Jego. Ona się zakochuje, On jest niekompatybilny, Ona chce się zbliżyć, ale On ją odpycha, tłumacząc, że nie jest dla niej odpowiednim towarzystwem. W końcu jednak wyznaje jej miłość, i wyjawia swoją prawdziwą naturę, ale Ona i tak chce z nim być. Kochanków zaczyna ścigać ZŁO (Niegodziwe Przeznaczenie/ zła korporacja/ szalony geniusz lub zabójca/rozeźleni współziomkowie/rozeźlona wroga rasa). Wychodzą z opresji, koniec.
  • Ona spotyka Jego, ale później spotyka też Innego. On i Inny walczą ze sobą, Ona jest niezdecydowana. Całą trójkę zaczyna ścigać ZŁO. Wychodzą z opresji, Ona wybiera Truloffa, Odrzucony usuwa się w cień albo zostaje jej osobistym Służącym/Kołem Ratunkowym, koniec.
  • zerżnięta żywcem z Dumy i uprzedzenia: Ona spotyka Jego, On jednak wydaje się zupełnie niezainteresowany. Ona spotyka Innego i dobrze się z nim bawi, ignorując Jego ostentacyjne ostrzeżenia. Zaczyna Ją ścigać ZŁO, w wyniku którego Inny okazuje się być perfidnym padalcem, a On wcale nie jest takim bucem, na jakiego wyglądał. Ona ląduje w Jego ramionach, koniec.
  • zasadniczy brak, jakieś tam wydarzenia przeplatane opisami seksualnych ekscesów.

8. Pamiętaj, że wszystko podlega Przeznaczeniu — od przyjazdu do wypizdówka począwszy, na ślubie skończywszy. Miłość jak grom z jasnego nieba i odwieczne przepowiednie są w bardzo dobrym tonie. Jednocześnie twoi bohaterowie muszą być wybitnymi indywidualistami, którzy biorą los w swoje ręce.


Mało kto pisze się na narrację prowadzoną z punktu widzenia samotnego drzewa albo opisuje dorastanie kocięcia, dlatego powieść zasadniczo powinna mieć ludzkich bohaterów — zwłaszcza, że masz pisać romans. To motywacje bohaterów są najważniejsze, to one są lokomotywą dla powieści. Równie ważna jest ich przeszłość, to, czym się teraz zajmują, czym się interesują albo jakie są ich skryte marzenia. A skoro piszesz paranormala, twoje zadanie jest bardzo, bardzo łatwe, bo czego pragną twoi bohaterowie? Wielkiej, nieskończonej miłości!

1. Bohaterowie nie mogą mieć więcej niż trzydzieści lat. Jeśli dany osobnik jest nieśmiertelny, i tak wygląda na góra dwadzieścia lat i ma świetny tyłek. Nie występują bohaterowie brzydcy i starzy, chyba że są źli i nikczemni. Sprawdza się tu klasyczna zasada baśni: dobrzy bohaterowie są piękni, antagonistów zaś nikt nie tknie choćby kijem i przez szmatę. By być przewrotnym, negatywna postać czasem może być olśniewająco piękna i ponętna, ale proporcjonalnie musi wzrosnąć obrzydliwość jej występków.

2. Postacie paranormalne powinny wychodzić poza typowo średniowieczne pojmowanie demonicznych typów, to jest, że wszystkie są złe i działają na korzyść człowieka. Wampiry, demony, duchy są zasadniczo uczłowieczone . Musi tak być, jeśli to główny bohater przynależy do fantastycznej rasy (wszak musi być typem uczuciowym, a nie potworem, skoro ma zaskarbić sobie sympatię czytelników), a już musi absolutnie, gdy główny bohater jest człowiekiem i wchodzi w relację romantyczną z „potworem z legend".

3. Co tyczy się poprzedniego punktu, fantastyczność postaci nie może nieść zbyt wielkiego ryzyka dla człowieka — jest ona tylko przepisowym utrudnieniem do osiągnięcia szczęścia.  Również musi być umożliwione uprawianie seksu bez bezpośredniego zagrożenia dla życia.

4. Jeśli bohaterowie są wampirami, w większości przypadków charakteryzuje ich zdolność do pożywiania się ludzkim jedzeniem i brak zapędów sadystycznych. Koegzystencja z ludźmi nie stwarza im większych problemów, gdyż wykształcili w sobie albo samokontrolę, albo wręcz nie muszą się pożywiać krwią.

5. Nie możesz tworzyć głównych bohaterów, którzy są przeciętni. Przeciętnymi mogą być tylko bohaterowie epizodyczni, którzy stanowią swoiste zapchajdziury. Nieprzeciętność występuje w dwóch odmianach: jako Elitarność i Wybrańcowatość.

6.Elitarność jest cechą zbiorową, przeliczaną na ilość ciuchów od renomowanych projektantów (oraz częstotliwością przebierania się) i uczęszczaniem do szkoły niepublicznej dla nieprzyzwoicie bogatych. Osobnicy uznani za Elitarnych nazywani są wyrafinowanymi, co ostatecznie jest ładniejszym określeniem na zadęcie i obsesję na własnym punkcie.

7. Wybrańcowatość tyczy się oczywiście pojedynczych przypadków, jest to albo sama Bohaterka, albo wespół z Truloffem. Wyznacznikiem Wybrańcowatości jest ekstraordynarna ŚMOC lub przynależność do zajebistej rasy, która znajduje się na skraju wyginięcia.

Główna bohaterka (bochałturka)

Nie oszukujmy się, około 99% głównych bohaterów romansów paranormalnych jest płci żeńskiej. Boom na dorastających chłopców miał już swój moment po publikacji Harry'ego Pottera, zatem wypadałoby przyjąć feministyczny punkt widzenia.

1. Musisz odwołać się do mormońskich technik manipulacji, których użyła Stefcia Meyer — mianowicie, stworzyć bohaterkę, z którą bardzo łatwo się utożsamić, nawet jeśli jest wampirzycą lub smoczycą.  Głównie po to, by czytelnik mógł intensywniej przeżyć razem z nią wirtualny romans.

2. Bochałturka powinna być młoda — najbardziej pożądanym wiekiem jest 16 lat, głównie dlatego, że jest to moment zawieszenia między dzieciństwem i dorosłością, pierwszych miłości, oraz chwila, w której poznaje się smak prawdziwego życia — idzie się do liceum. Studentki z racji tego czynnika są również mile widziane. Jak zostało już powiedziane, w przypadku bohaterów nieśmiertelnych młody wygląd nie musi iść w parze z wiekiem — aczkolwiek nic nie stoi na przeszkodzie, by dla rozrywki po raz piąty powtarzać szkołę średnią.

3. Jej imię winno być do bólu pospolite (Jennifer, Vanessa) albo wręcz przeciwnie (Serena, Elena), tudzież zapożyczone z mitologii hebrajskiej/wskazujące na jej wybitną Wybrańcowatość (Lilith, Luce, Mercy, Ever, Blasksłońca Biegnącywilk.

4. Nie może być zanadto szczęśliwa, i to już od dzieciństwa. Nikt nie lubi czytać o najedzonych, zadowolonych z życia ludziach. Twoja heroina musi być osierocona, czasem pozbawiona tylko jednego z rodziców, najlepiej zmarłego/zaginionego w tajemniczych okolicznościach. A jeśli żyje w pełnej rodzinie, musi mieć poczucie, że jest w niej czarną owcą, mnie kochaną od starszej siostry. Szczytem doskonałości jednak zawsze będzie trudne dzieciństwo w zatłoczonym i zawilgoconym sierocińcu.

5. Jeżeli ma naście lat, szkoła jest jej naturalnym środowiskiem — obojętnie czy to szkoła średnia, czy elitarna akademia dla wampirów. Uczyć się musi, a jej stosunek do nauki może być przeróżny, dominuje jednak nastawienie obojętne. W szkole poza tym poznaje swojego Truloffa/Śmiertelną Rywalkę.

6. Poza ubraniami, włosami, Truloffem i seksem nie musi mieć widocznych zainteresowań; czasem niech coś przeczyta lub namaluje, ale ostatecznie nikt od niej tego nie wymaga, co najwyżej może czytać duże ilości książek (czy raczej mówić, że tyle czyta). Ewentualnie powinna osiągnąć poziom ekspercki w jednej dziedzinie albo realizować się na wyrównanym (tj. zawsze powyżej przeciętnego) poziomie w wielu różnych płaszczyznach.

7. Jej życie seksualne nie może być przedstawione niejasno. Jeśli bohaterka ma mniej niż 20 lat, musi być dziewicą; jeśli studiuje, jest powszechnie uważana za dziwadło i dlatego
wciąż jest dziewicą; jeśli ma około 30 lat albo jest nieumarła, oznacza to nimfomanię.

8.Jeśli ma przyjaciółkę, musi być albo ładna i durna, albo brzydka i durna; durna jest zawsze. Zazwyczaj mówi o wiele więcej niż byłoby to (przez bohaterkę) pożądane, często to dzięki niej bohaterka poznaje Truloffa. Postać ta służy jako podkreślenie krystalicznego charakteru protagonistki albo jako mięso armatnie.

9. Jako że podobno w (trzeźwym) towarzystwie nie dyskutuje się o religii i polityce, bohaterka nie powinna mieć skrystalizowanych poglądów na rząd w swoim kraju ani też posiadać ukierunkowanej duchowości. Wszak nic nie może być ponad nią, czy to prezydent, czy Bóg. Przedstawienie bohaterki jako religijnej ma sens tylko wtedy, gdy na horyzoncie majaczy wyuzdany, ociekający testosteronem Truloff, jako zalążek konfliktu z samą sobą.

10. Niezależnie od poziomu życia towarzyskiego i rodzinnego, bochałturkę powinien cechować wysoko rozwinięty egoizm. W końcu żyjemy w epoce generacji Y i kładziemy nacisk na zapewnienie komfortu swojemu tyłkowi, a bohaterka działająca w duchu kolektywu  będzie mało atrakcyjna. Dlatego nie powinna zaprzątać sobie głowy niczym innym niż ona sama i jej Truloff, czasem może zająć się okolicznościami tragicznie zmarłej siostry. Ponadto, rozpuszczona heroina będzie odebrana pozytywnie, jako feminizująca i wytrwale dążąca do celu.

Przedstawione cechy są jednak bardzo uogólniające, i mogą stanowić jedynie wstępne wytyczne do kreowania Mary Sue, tfu, głównej bohaterki. Poniżej przedstawione są poszczególne podtypy paranormalnych heroin, gdzie punktem wyjścia jest zdolność do rozkładu:

  • Śmiertelna Nieoganięta — typowa licealistka. Jest jedyną osobą, która uważa się za brzydką. Nawet jeśli lustro w oczywisty sposób pokazuje, że to nieprawda, Maryśka i tak z cyfrową dokładnością zauważa mankamenty swojej urody typu jedno oko wyżej od drugiego. Absolutnie niczym się nie wyróżnia, co owocuje charakterem równie interesującym co traktat o cyklu godowym krabów, budzącym jednak niezdrowe wręcz zainteresowanie płci przeciwnej. Zasadniczo jest niezdarna (bo jakże to tak, że skoordynowana ruchowo, skoro ktoś musi ją ratować), nieśmiała, zaczytuje się w klasycznych wiktoriańskich powieściach i jest inteligentna niczym wiadro gwoździ, często uważana przez otoczenie za wycofaną z rozwoju.
  • Śmiertelna Ja Wam Pokażę — licealistka, która posiada ŚMOC. Tak jak Śmiertelna Nieogarnięta jest uważana za wycofaną z rozwoju, a także za dziwną i nienormalną — lecz pełne uaktywnienie ŚMOCY vel spektakularne jej użycie (nierzadko w dniu szesnastych urodzin) kompensuje wszystkie doznane dotąd krzywdy, automatycznie dodaje też pewności siebie i Truloffa. Jeśli wyróżnia się wyglądem, to jedynie kolorem oczu/włosów, czasem ma też dziwne znamię w dziwnym miejscu. Do momentu uaktywnienia i ujarzmienia ŚMOCY ma daleko idącą obsesję na punkcie własnej odmienności.
  • Nieśmiertelna Rozpuszczona Jak Dziadowski Bitch — licealistka spod znaku Elitarności, ucieleśnienie mitu o amerykańskiej cheerleaderce. Obowiązkowo uczennica prywatnej szkoły. Bycie martwą nie przeszkadza jej w zdobywaniu szczytu szkolnej drabiny ewolucyjnej: piękna, bogata, doskonale ubrana samica alfa w stadzie, za które robią brzydsze i mniej rozgarnięte koleżanki. Nie posiada zainteresowań wychodzących poza obręb ubrań, kart kredytowych i facetów, a bonusy wynikające z nieśmiertelności pożytkuje na gromadzenie wspomnianych przedmiotów (facet również jest przedmiotem).
  • Nieśmiertelna Stadna — jej tożsamość jest ściśle związana z przynależnością do danej rasy, zazwyczaj czysto fantastycznej: wróżki, elfy, wilkołaki itd. Koniecznie przewyższający swoich pobratymców mocą, wyglądem lub pochodzeniem, co przekłada się na wybitny indywidualizm/upierdliwość; ewentualnie odznacza się silną lojalnością wobec przywódców stada/królestwa. Nierzadko ma określone z góry przeznaczenie, często w kwestii matrymonialnej. Im bardziej upierdliwa, tym większe prawdopodobieństwo, że zakocha się w kimś nieakceptowanym przez jej rodzinę — najczęściej wybrankiem jest człowiek, przez co musi wybierać między stadem a miłością.
  • Nieśmiertelna Przezajebista — paranormalna odpowiedniczka bohaterek Seksu w wielkim mieście oraz ucieleśnienie mitu trzydziestoletniej kobiety sukcesu. Na skutek nieoczekiwanej śmierci musi porzucić dochodową posadę i kolekcję szpilek, i z bólem serca rozpocząć nowe życie pod osłoną nocy, co i tak owocuje jeszcze bardziej dochodową posadą w jakiejś wampiryczno-sukkubiej firmie tudzież departamencie. Seksowna i niezależna, dzięki nieśmiertelności zyskuje na powabności i odporności na zmarszczki. Przez jej łóżko z satynową pościelą przewijają się tabuny mężczyzn natury wszelakiej, finalnie ląduje tam jedyny słuszny Truloff.
  • Nieśmiertelna na Pełnej Kurwie — czyli zabójczyni mrocznego tałatajstwa. Znacznie bystrzejsza niż jej poprzedniczki, jednak Imperatyw zmusza ją, by raz na jakiś czas była zaradna inaczej, zwłaszcza gdy na horyzoncie pojawia się Truloff. Może być równie ponętna jak Nieśmiertelna Przezajebista, jednak przez większość czasu pozuje na żelazną dziewicę, choć odznacza się sporym seksualnym temperamentem.


Truloff, True Love, Lśniący Wybranek Serca, Ciacho, Archanioł w Dżinsach, My Future Husband — jakkolwiek go nazwać, powieść bez niego nie istnieje. Nieważne, czy bochałturka jest zwyczajną licealistką i jej największym problemem jest sprawdzian z biologii, czy musi do jutra uratować swoje stado przed zagładą — Truloff być musi.

1. Pamiętaj, że Truloffa nie kreujesz dla bochałturki. On jest dla twoich czytelniczek, które z wypiekami na twarzach będą czytać opisy jego ciała, a później przekreślać imiona bohaterki i wpisywać nad nim swoje własne. Ewentualnie może być projekcją twoich własnych fantazji erotycznych albo uwiecznieniem twojego Byłego Niedoszłego, ale lepiej nie przyznawaj się do tego (zwłaszcza, gdy jesteś w związku).

2. Truloff jest piękny. Nie istnieje coś takiego jak Truloff brzydki, kuternożny, z próchnicą czy choćby z odstającymi uszami.  Po prostu takiego NIE MA.

3. Musi mieć jeszcze bardziej wybrańcowate imię niż jego panna: Damien, Dante, Gabriel, Lucifer, Lucius, Lucian, Drake, Eli Lama Sabachtani.

4. Niezależnie od charakteru, musi wykazywać kompulsywne wręcz zainteresowanie swoją wybranką — nieistotne, czy ona tego chce, czy nie. Kwiaty i czekoladki są zdecydowanie passe, nie pasują także do pojęcia wiecznej, nieskończonej miłości — okazywanie uczucia powinno obejmować, długie przemowy na temat żywionego przezeń Płomiennego Uczucia okraszone wyszukanymi metaforami, rzucanie wybrankę na glebę w razie (potencjalnego) niebezpieczeństwa, pisanie utworów na fortepian w tonacji d-moll. Nie obawiaj się nadać bohaterowi cech stalkera — w dzisiejszych czasach jest to uznawane za romantyczne.

5. Tak samo jak bochałturki, Truloffowie dzielą się na podtypy:
  • typ lunarny — wampir, demon, upadły anioł, nowy uczeń w szkole. Szalenie przystojny, noszący stygmat tajemnicy, o niejasnym pochodzeniu, pijany swym cierpieniem. Obowiązkowo wysoki (widział kto niskiego?), odziany w czerń/skóry, małomówny, sardoniczny, ale zyskuje przy bliższym poznaniu. Przymioty ducha są zepchnięte na plan chyba czwarty w obliczu olśniewającego lica. Seks jest niebiański (jeśli jest wampirem, dodatkowo każde jego ukąszenie jest gwarantem orgazmu stulecia).
  • typ solarny — wilkołak, znajomy z dzieciństwa, hot diabeł. Również przystojny, o aparycji lekko łobuzerskiej. Jest otwarty, towarzyski i sympatyczny, tylko czasem próbuje letniego chamskiego podrywu. Aktywnie zabiega o względy bochałturki i w dupie ma to, że jest niebezpieczny/i tak zostanie przez nią odrzucony. W podtypie Leśnego Luda może być nieco mniej towarzyski, ale niezmiennie emanuje zwierzęcą seksualnością. Seks także jest niebiański, ale o wiele bardziej wyuzdany.
  • typ astralny — anioł, elf. Piękny w typie klasycznym, nawet kobiecym, nierzadko posiada bajer w postaci skrzydeł. Wzór cnót, pozbawiony erotycznego powabu, za to jest obietnicą wiecznej miłości, ewentualnie subtelnego seksu, który nie kończy się nastoletnią ciążą.

6. Niezależnie od wybranego podtypu, musisz umieścić w historii co najmniej dwóch Truloffów:
  • obaj seksowni i nieśmiertelni; jeden jest pociągającym bucem, drugi jest nieco bardziej niemrawy, za to jest obietnicą romantyczny pierwszego razu
  • jeden śmiertelny, drugi nie; obaj seksowni. Jeśli bohaterka wybierze pierwszego, to później zrozumie, że to z drugim chce się spalać w grzesznym płomieniu pożądania eonów i wieków
  • obaj nieśmiertelni, ale z zupełnie różnych gatunków; Pierwsze Prawo Belli mówi, że bohaterka wybierze tego, który jest ładniejszy, a którego atrakcyjność fizyczna jest wprost proporcjonalna do bucostwa. Drugi kandydat jest natychmiastowo friendzonowany i degradowany do roli osobistego Murzyna
  • tak czy inaczej, trójkąt miłosny być musi. Nie ma zmiłuj.

Płomienne Uczucie i Ciągoty Zmysłowe

Prawdę mówiąc, Płomienne Uczucie jest o wiele ważniejsze niż sami bohaterowie. W końcu to z tego powodu bierzesz się za romans paranormalny — by zapewnić gawiedzi to, czego nie dostanie od napalonego, pryszczatego siedemnastolatka, a później od męża gnieżdżącego się na kanapie. Także Ciągoty Zmysłowe są niebagatelną sprawą, bo jak wiadomo, seks zawsze się dobrze sprzedaje.

1. Płomienne Uczucie nie ma swoich początków wspólnych zainteresowaniach, podobnym poczuciu humoru czy choćby na ciekawych rozmowach — tylko na Przeznaczeniu, atrakcyjności fizycznej Truloffa oraz jego tajemniczości, ewentualnie wspólnej ŚMOCY tudzież ławce na biologii.

2. Nawet niech ci przez myśl nie przejdzie, by twoi bohaterowie robili coś pospolitego — wszak to Płomienne Uczucie, a nie jakieś tam spotykanie się. Żadnego więc chodzenia na kręgle, grania z Scrabble i kłócenia się o kołdrę — te rzeczy są dozwolone jedyne w początkowej fazie związku, gdy bochałturka odkrywa, że jej wybranek jest śmiertelny inaczej. Płomienne Uczucie to tylko rzeczy wzniosłe i romantyczne: rozmowy o duszy, walka z odwiecznym złem, rzucanie się z klifu.

3. Pamiętaj, że Płomienne Uczucie jest niezniszczalne. Nawet jeżeli zapętlisz fabułę tak dramatycznym wydarzeniem jak skrzywdzenie bochałturki przez ukochanego, to Drugie Prawo Belli mówi, że im większa doznana krzywda, tym łatwiej zostanie ona wybaczona (a nawet stanie się katalizatorem Jeszcze Bardziej Płomiennego Uczucia).

4. Bohaterka w wieku szkolno-akademickim zanim spotka swojego wybranka, nie może mieć jakichkolwiek doświadczeń w sferze seksu. Żadnych więc pocałunków i pieszczot z kimś innym, masturbacji, fantazji erotycznych, gdy w słoneczko. Najlepiej, by do spotkania Truloffa nie odczuwała jakichkolwiek Ciągot Zmysłowych.

5.Natomiast już po spotkaniu Truloffa, należy jej zapewnić orgazmiczne przeżycia przy każdym jego dotyku, takie, przy których może się schować nawet święta Teresa z Avila. Prądy i dreszcze przeszywające całe ciało, rumieńce, palpitacje, problemy z oddychaniem — obowiązkowo.

6. Nie powinno dochodzić jednak do seksu w wieku licealnym. Ponadto wszelkie Ciągoty wywodzą się z Płomiennego Uczucia, a nie z pospolitej chuci. Jedyne, co jest w tym wieku dozwolone, to namiętne pocałunki i ukradkowe masowanie bioder.

7. Nie istnieją takie rzeczy jak pot, sperma, ślina, śluz pochwowy i inne. Nawet jeśli jedna ze stron jest śmiertelna, nie ma mowy o jakichkolwiek naturalnych wydzielinach. Antykoncepcja również nie istnieje, w końcu druga strona jest bezpłodna i nieumarła.

8. Kiedy już dochodzi do inicjacji seksualnej, defloracja musi mieć miejsce tylko z członkiem Truloffa, w dużej, romantycznej sypialni, najlepiej już po ślubie/uratowaniu świata. W przypadku doświadczonej dziewczyny/kobiety, pierwszy raz z Truloffem musi być o wiele lepszy niż jej poprzednie doświadczenia. Ponadto ból przy rozdziewiczaniu jest prawie niezauważalny, a przy orgazmie wsysa się dupą prześcieradło. Idealną sytuacją jest wielogodzinny seks dwójki nieumarłych bez jakiegokolwiek odpoczynku.

9. Jeżeli już decydujesz się na ryzykowny krok, jakim jest pierwszy stosunek przed dwudziestką — po prostu nie opisuj tego. Motywuj się wzniosłością i intymnością takiej chwili.


ŚMOC jest obowiązkowym dodatkiem, który ułatwia poruszanie się w skomplikowanym świecie, a co dopiero w świecie nadprzyrodzonym — przy czym ŚMOC może być wyznacznikiem Elitarności i Wybrańcowatości. W sytuacjach krytycznych służy też jako narzędzie do obrony swojej razy, względnie Truloffa.

1. ŚMOC występuje zarówno u bohaterek nieśmiertelnych, jak i tych, które jeszcze do wczoraj myślały, że są zwyczajnymi nastolatkami. ŚMOC odróżnia ją od reszty plebsu/wiąże ją ze starożytnym klanem, którego jest ostatnią przedstawicielką; ewentualnie ułatwia jej ona wyżynanie mrocznej braci.

2. Dostępne ŚMOCE: telepatia, podróże w czasie, nekromancja dzięki genetycznym modyfikacjom, przewidywanie przyszłości, tworzenie glutowatej bariery, odsyłanie duchów w zaświaty, niewytłumaczone niczym przyciąganie i rozkochiwanie całej męskiej części szkoły. Ale możliwości masz generalnie nieograniczone.

3.Trzecie Prawo Belli mówi, że bez względu na jełopowatość w życiu codziennym, bochałturka potrafi bezbłędnie posługiwać się ŚMOCĄ. Wiek i doświadczenie nie odgrywają tu istotnej roli, dlatego też spotykamy szesnastoletnie łowczynie wampirów, bieglejsze w swoim fachu niż Hugh Jackman w Hellsingu.


1. Jedynym słusznym zakończeniem jest ostatecznie zejście się bochałturki i Truloffa. Mogą stracić ŚMOCE, majątek i bliskich, ale jest to nieistotne — Płomienne Uczucie przetrwa wszystko.

2. Nie zastanawiaj się więc na dalszymi losami postaci pobocznych — istniały przecież tylko po to, by utrudniać realizację Płomiennego Uczucia.

3. Nie zastanawiaj się też nad dalszymi losami pierwszoplanowych bohaterów, kiedy już wezmą ślub albo stoczą epicką bitwę o przetrwanie. Czy ktoś się zastanawiał nad losami królewien z baśni, kiedy już powiedzą sakramentalne tak? Nikt, i nikogo to nie obchodzi. Najwyższy level egzystencji —  MARRIED — został już osiągnięty.

4.Jeżeli kończysz tom, możesz ewentualnie poprzestać na decyzji o rozstaniu lub innym dramatycznym wydarzeniu, które będzie punktem wyjścia dla kolejnego tomu. Możesz nawet stworzyć pozory, że bohaterów przestało łączyć Płomienne Uczucie — pamiętaj jednak, to zawsze są tylko pozory!

Uwagi końcowe

1. Jeżeli już skończysz pisać, nie przeglądaj swojego dzieła i nie poprawiaj go. Nie ma takiej potrzeby, korekta w wydawnictwie zrobi to za ciebie. Zresztą, naruszy to twoje poczucie godności, więc możesz tego zabronić — w końcu CIEBIE będzie ktoś edytował?

2. Zadbaj o okładkę. Zleć ją jakiemuś początkującemu grafikowi albo koledze — będą mieć na jedzenie, a i wytyczne są bardzo jasne: ponure lub wyuzdane dziewczę odziane w gotycką czerń, wygięta w cierpiętniczej pozie albo w samym ujęciu na twarz, która wyraża wszystkie emocje, tylko nie zadowolenie. W kolejnym tomie może być to już Truloff, eksponujący całą swą woskową muskulaturę i posępność. Najlepiej będzie, jeśli okładka będzie przedstawiać ciebie lub twojego seksownego kolegę/koleżankę ze studiów.

3. Żyjemy w dobie książki zdigitalizowanej, więc nic nie stoi na przeszkodzie, byś najpierw opublikował książkę w Internecie albo porozsyłał pdfy do znajomych. Przy dobrych wiatrach jakieś wydawnictwo samo zaproponuje ci publikację.

4. Jeżeli nikt nie chce cię wydać, zrób to sam. Pamiętaj, najbardziej cenione książki były najpierw zawsze odrzucane.

5. Czekaj na sławę i pieniądze. Przyjdą, to kwestia czasu — w tak zwanym międzyczasie wymyśl fabułę kolejnego tomu i wyobrażaj sobie swoje wieczory autorskie.


Unf, zrobiłam to. Przed Wami kolejny, po Jak byc dobrym rockmanem, poradnik, tym razem pisarski.

A wynikło to głównie z frustracji - chcesz pisać coś o wampirach i innych szitach, a nie możesz, by ci pomysły ukradli, albo wiesz, że zostaniesz zaszufladkowany. Ja sobie cichcem tego Vincencika skrobałam od 2007 roku - pomijając watpliwą wartość artystyczną tego dzieła, nagle Zmierch stał się modny i nastąpiła eksplozja tego typu książek. I kupa.

Frustracja wzięła się też stąd, że o ile Zmiercha mogę łyknąć - takie tam czytadło, rzeczywiście, za pierwszym razem wciąga, za drugim o wiele mniej - to nie mogę zdzierżyć tych wszystkich paranormalnych książczynek. Pisanych na jedno kopyto, prostych do tego stopnia, że są już prostackie, pisane głównie dla pieniędzy. I żerując na nastolatkach.

Bo do nastolatków nic nie mam - bo jak mogę mieć - sama byłam jeszcze niedawno i wiem, jak pełne badziewia potrafią być te lata i z czym trzeba się mierzyć. Wiadomo, że trzynastolatka dopiero wyrabia sobie gust i mogą jej się takie rzeczy podobać. Ale żeby serwować im rozmemłane, egoistyczne bohaterki jako dzielne i odważne, facetów z manią prześladowczą i wmawiać im, że to zajebiście się dla takich buców zabijać - no kurwica mnie biere.

Lol, zauważam o siebie jakąś prospołeczność. Nie bijcie mnie.
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Chapter 4

Disclaimer: Only Meep and the teachers are mine everything else belongs to Jim Henson.

Sarah's P.O.V

Mondays had always been Sarah's least favourite day of the week. One it meant that she had to go back to school, Two that she would get a load more homework to do after she had just finished the last lot and Three because it would be a whole five days before the weekend. In short the reason Sarah detested Mondays was because it meant she had to spend five days in hell. The cause of Sarah's hatred to school wasn't because she was bad at her classes; in fact in all her classes she had reasonably good grades, only in English and Drama did she really excel. No it was because she didn't really have any friends there.

When Sarah had been little she had had many friends, they enjoyed playing together, pretending to be fairies or princesses, but as they had become older they had began to grow out of their childish fantasies. Sarah who had helplessly clung onto them was soon shut out of her friend's conversations and eventually there was no one who wanted to hang out with her, all because she preferred fairytales over gossip magazines and had no interest in boys who weren't fictional.

This made things harder for her when her mother had walked out. She had no friends with whom she could confide in. She had let the anger and hurt boil up inside of her causing her to resent Karen and to hate Toby. But after the events of the Labyrinth Sarah had realised that life wasn't fair. It wasn't fair that her old friends shunned her. It wasn't fair that her mum had walked out on her and it wasn't fair that she now had to share her father's attention with Toby and Karen. But now she realised that that was the way the world worked and that it was best to just move on and not dwell on the bad stuff. Besides now she did have friends and she had realised that Toby wasn't half bad.

Despite Sarah's new objective to just take the world as it came, she still felt the same reluctance to get out of bed on Monday morning. She wished she could have spoken to her friends last night. She was going to spend most of the day on her own despite the fact that she would be surrounded by other students. It would have been nice to talk with them but it seemed that she would have to wait till this evening before she could. With a great deal of effort Sarah threw off her duvet and headed for the shower.


Sarah hummed quietly to herself as she walked down the dreary school corridor to her locker. The weather outside reflected her mood. Grey clouds filled the sky and a few droplets of rain splattered against the windows. Sarah had promised herself that she would try to look on the bright side of things but however hard she tried she couldn't find anything pleasant about double calculus on a Monday morning. She was glad that she had finished her homework the night before; those in the class who had failed to do the assignment were now staying behind at the end of school to do it then.
She reached her locker and began twisting the dial to unlock it.

5,8,2,4... there! She yanked the door open then quickly slammed it shut, eyes wide in shock. The boy who was putting his books away a few doors down gave her a strange look before shutting his own door and sauntering off down the hall. Glancing up and down the hallway Sarah made sure no one was watching her and wasn't in earshot before she took a deep breath and opened her locker again.
"Meep! What are you doing here?" Sarah whispered.
"Hello Lady!" Meep chirped happily, Sarah winced at his loud voice. Quickly she brought her finger to her lips in the universal sign for quite.
"Shhhhh." Sarah said quietly checking to make sure none had heard. The goblin sitting on top of English literature brought a finger to his lips too.
"Why are you here?" Sarah hissed putting her calculus book in next to Meep.
The little Goblin's face fell.
"Lady not pleased to see Meep?" he asked, tears filling his eyes. Sarah immediately felt bad.
"Of course I'm pleased to see you; it's just...Well someone might see you."  The Goblin's eyes lit back up.
"Don't worries Lady, Meep won't be seen!" he said in a hushed tone. In the back of her mind Sarah briefly remembered Meep saying that he had been ordered not to let her see him but she ignored it.
"But why are you here wouldn't you prefer to be back at home?" she asked reaching for her History of art book that was on the shelf above Meep.
"Meep was Bored Lady so Meep came here! This place fun"
"You came to school because you were bored?"
Meep nodded smiling up at her. Well that's a first! Sarah thought someone actually finds school fun.
"Sarah?" a Voice behind Sarah caused her to whirl round. Before her stood her Biology teacher, Mrs Bradley.
"Who are you talking to?" she asked
Uh oh! She thought.
" one." She replied. Mrs Bradley gave her a quizzical once over.
"You should be heading off to class Sarah you wouldn't want to be caught wondering the hall during class without a pass." She said before she walked away.

Sarah breathed a sigh of relief and turned back to her locker. Meep had vanished, which was a good thing; she didn't think it would be easy to explain if anyone saw him. "Oh the creature in my Locker? Yeah he's just a Goblin, one of the minions of the Goblin King who I accidently wished my brother to over the weekend." Yeah somehow Sarah knew that if she told people that story she'd be locked up good and tight.

The bell rang causing her to jump; darn I'm going to be late. She grabbed her Biology book which Meep had be sitting on and hurried off to class.


Sarah was exhausted by the time she got home. Today had been trying, strange things kept happening in her classes after the first two periods. First in her History of Art Lesson everyone who had shoes with laces had them mysteriously tied together causing the wearers to trip when they got up to leave.

Then in her Biology class everyone's microscopes (except for hers) had black ink around the rim resulting in a large number of angry girls complaining that the ink had spoiled their makeup. Luckily Sarah had not accused of this prank although many grumbled about how unfair it was that she was the only one who didn't get a jinxed microscope.

Then in Gym when they were meant to be playing netball all the balls were inexplicably flat and when the Mr Gonzales decided that they should play Volley Ball instead they found that all the Nets were in knots. By the time they had untangled them the lesson had finished and it was time to go home.

As Sarah walked out of the changing rooms she heard her art teaching speaking to Mr Gonzales about the strange pranks that had been happening all over the school and how it was a complete mystery about who was doing them. It wasn't a mystery to Sarah. She had spent the better part of the day worrying that someone was going to see Meep. She had watched as the boy who had given her the strange look earlier by her locker, opened his own to be greeted with an explosion of what she guessed to be black chicken feathers. She had tried hard not to laugh as he had stood there covered in feathers, but now alone in her room Sarah allowed herself to laugh at the memory. She now knew why Meep had called school fun.

She crossed over to her vanity and sat down, staring absentmindedly at her reflection she wondered whether or not her friends would be able to visit her now, it wouldn't hurt to try.
"Hoggle, I need you!" she whispered. The only thing she saw looking back out of the glass was her own piercing emerald green eyes.
"Ludo? Sir Didymus?" she tried but still the only person in her mirror was herself. She shrugged only a little disheartened, she could try again later.

But when she did try again she still got no response. She tried again that night, then the night after that. She was beginning to get worried. She questioned Meep about it. His response was always that they probably had work to do. She noticed that whenever she questioned him about her friends he would act strangle before he would answer her, he went incredibly still, then he would tremble slightly till she changed the subject. When she asked him if anything was wrong the little Goblin would just shake his head.
By Friday evening she knew something was up Meep was acting stranger than usual, more jumpy.

She crossed over to the bed where he was sitting and crouched down in front of him.
"What is it Meep? Why are you so jumpy?"  Meep's bottom lip quivered slightly and then he burst into floods of tears. Sarah leapt back and watched horrified as the goblin took the saucepan off his head and proceeded to hit himself over the head with it.
Sarah quickly recovered and rushed forward and restrained him before he could cause himself any really harm.
"What's the matter?" she asked holding the saucepan out of reach. Meep hurled himself at the floor and continued to weep.
"Meep tell me why you're upset?" Sarah pleaded.
"Meep has something to tell Lady!" Meep sobbed.
"So why are you crying?" Sarah asked puzzled.
"Coz Lady won't like it. Make Lady sad." Sarah froze.
"Meep, does this have anything to do with my friends?" she watched as Meep slowly nodded his head. "Where are they Meep?" Meep wailed louder. "Tell me!" Sarah cried.
"In the dungeon in Castle beyond Goblin City." Meep howled.
Well heres chapter 4 sorry it took so long i've had lots of things to do and then i went away for a week.

Disclaimer: i sadly do not own the Labyrinth all characters mentioned above belong to (C) Jim Henson. Meep however does belong to me.

Shortly after sarah returns from The labyrinth she relises that the Goblin King is not quite as defeated as she hoped and that he is far from finshed with her! This time the Goblin King will stop at nothing to get what he wants!

This story could end up with a dark jareth and later chapters may hav mature content so ye be warned.

chapter 1: [link]
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“Jareth’s Lament” In 3 acts.

Act 1

His nose itched with the building pressure of an impending sneeze. This was bothersome, but he didn’t have much time to consider it, as he took in a sharp breath and… “Hetschuhh…” another sharp breath- “Grrshhuh!” *sniff*.

The sneeze had shattered any semblance of unconsciousness he had been trying to achieve and he grumbled slightly, keeping his eyes shut while his mind started to open up to the sounds around him.
It was the middle of the day, and Jareth was holed up in his chambers in the tall center tower of the castle beyond the goblin city. Outside his doors life went on as usual in the city and the surrounding labyrinth, although there was never anything ‘usual’ about it. And the ruckus caused by the motley crew of goblins was at an even more annoying pitch thanks to the rumors circulating about their king’s prolonged seclusion of late. Quite frankly, Jareth didn’t give a damn. The labyrinth, the goblin city, the castle itself, could all go to pieces around him and he wouldn’t care (Hell, it almost had! There were still broken bits of staircases littering the ballroom after what Sarah had done).

Jareth opened his eyes reluctantly and sat up on the edge of the bed. He straightened his blowsy white shirt with the pointed collar and cleared his throat, which was beginning to feel like there was a lump forming in it. He reached for his tall leather boots and pulled them on over the ragged bottoms of his tight gray pants. Pausing, he brought a fist up as his nose tingled again. “Heh-RrrshHUH!” *sniff* “Ah, good,” he said cynically in his low, sultry voice, “a rotten cold to match my rotten mood.” He pulled on a pair of brown leather gloves and clenched his fists tightly.

Outside Jareth could hear Hoggle addressing a crowd of rowdy goblins in the throne room. The little terd was becoming quite the public speaker in his absence. He would have to remember later to give him a stay of execution on that whole ‘bog of eternal stench thing’.

“Keep it down, damn you!” Hoggle growled at them all. “He ain’t seein’ no one, and he ain’t been seein’ no one! So shut up or we’ll all be thrown in an oubliette!”
Jareth smiled to himself at the thought.
“You know how he gets, and he’s in a foul mood!” Hoggle continued.
Jareth’s smile faded. “Is that so, Hogwart?” He appeared directly behind the stumpy goblin out of thin air and a hush fell over the room.
Hoggle blanched and bowed several times. “Yes, Jareth!- I-I mean NO, Jareth…your majesty! I was just illustratin’ to this lot how…how terrifying your wrath can be!”
“It’s quite terrifying.” Jareth yawned, and walked back towards his chambers. “Hog-breath?” He called without looking back.
“Hoggle.” Hoggle corrected.
“Whatever. May I have a word?”
Hoggle stumbled after him quickly (as if he had a choice), and the huge stone doors opened for them of their own accord and closed dramatically behind them.

In the silence of the elaborate room Hoggle fidgeted nervously as he waited for Jareth to address him. The Goblin King paced back and forth, towering over the small goblin, and finally he said, “I’ve noticed you disappearing from time to time, Hogwart…Where do you go?”
Hoggle thought carefully, and then he stuttered, “I…I’ve been in all corners of the labyrinth, sire… Keepin’ things in order for you.”
Jareth ran a gloved finger under his nose as he considered this. His eyes narrowed with the beginnings of another sneeze, but he passed it off as a glare. “Do you imagine, even when I am not paying attention, that I do not know what is taking place in every corner of my labyrinth?”
Hoggle shook his head.
“Good. Then tell me where you really were.”

Hoggle shuddered. “Arrghh…I was…*sigh* I was visitin’…Her.” He knew better than to say Sarah’s name in front of Jareth. She was the whole cause of his sulking. But Jareth crouched down in front of him so they were eye level.
“You were…”
“You were visiting…?”
“…S-Sarah, your majesty.”

Jareth said nothing, but stood up and walked to the dresser, grabbed one of his crystals, and threw it hard at the stone floor, where it exploded into a million pieces. Hoggle cringed. Jareth sniffed and walked back over to him, his heeled boots crunching on the broken crystal. “Why on earth would she want to see a little snot like you!?” He demanded.
“Well because we’s friends, that’s why!” Hoggle retorted, mustering what little courage he had.

Jareth rolled his eyes in disgust. “Ah yes, you’re…you’re friends…” he paused, mid-sentence, and his face contorted slightly. He made a small grunt of annoyance and brought his gloved hand up again to press one side of his nose shut in an attempt to quell the itch there, but it was no use. The pressure built and his nostrils flared sharply. “Hihh-TSHHhuh!” The force bent him at the waist slightly before he sniffled thickly and regained his composure. Hoggle just stared in surprise, too afraid to bless him and bring attention to the sneeze. But Jareth raised his eyebrows at him. “Well?” he demanded.
“Uh- Bless you, your highness,” Hoggle fumbled.

Jareth just nodded and continued his speech. “You’re friends, and I sit here alone in my castle! After all that I’ve done for her!” He sat back on his oversized bed and rubbed his forehead in thought. And also because he was getting a headache.
Hoggle waited for him to speak again, and when he didn’t, said, “Well…you did take her brother from her.”
“-By her own request!” Jareth interrupted. “He was a brat and a nuisance… would’ve made a wonderful goblin, though- and a decent heir, had I succeeded.” Hoggle was silent now. Jareth hadn’t spoken this long to anyone in days unless it had been to give a punishment. Yet how all he had been pondering over was being vented and confided to him. Why was he always so unlucky?

“…But I lost Toby, and Sarah refused to become my queen.” He shook his head as if he still couldn’t grasp the reason for his failure. There was a silence between them that was broken by another harsh sneeze from Jareth. “Ehh-TSCHhuh!” That one was wetter than the others and his nose was beginning to run. He sniffled, not wanting to wipe it on his gloves. Hoggle dug in his pockets quickly and produced a lacy handkerchief.
“Bless you again, sire…You don’t sound so good.”
Jareth took the handkerchief with a flourish and blew his nose quickly. “Yes, it’s becoming quite obvious, I’m ill,” he snapped.
Hoggle shrugged, glad for the change of subject. “Well you ain’t been takin’ much care o’ yerself lately, ‘ave you? Ain’t even been down to torture the prisoners in days!”

Jareth lay back on his bed with a huff, then sat up again as if he’d gotten an idea. He went to a drawer and brought out a small silver pendant with a swirly design in the center that resembled a labyrinth. “How often do you see Sarah?”
Hoggle looked at him skeptically and shrugged. “Whenever she needs me I guess.”
“And you both like jewels, don’t you?” The Goblin King prodded. “Next time you see her, give her this.” He held the necklace out to Hoggle. It dangled there, glittering in a menacing sort of way.

Hoggle shook his head and backed away. “Oh no- not this time. I ain’t givin’ her nothing!” And here he plucked up all of his nerve and said, “If you want to talk to her, go do it yourself!” And he ran off through the giant stone doors as fast as his stubby little legs would carry him.

Jareth made a face and shoved the necklace back into the drawer and slammed it shut. He grabbed another round crystal off of the dresser and took it back to the bed. “Show me Sarah,” he whispered to it. Smoke formed, and then the face of a happy, dark haired girl appeared in the crystal. Jareth stared at it intently. “Go talk to her myself, eh?” He mumbled, and waved his hand over the crystal, making it go dark. “Maybe I will.”
Ohh I was slightly nervous about posting this! After all I consider myself more of a visual artist than a writer, but every now and again the mood strikes! This actually began as a request, but since I love the Goblin King so much I decided I very much liked to torture him ;)
There is very slight language in it, but I didn't think it was enough to merit a warning...I hope no one is offended.

Labyrinth is not mine, it belongs to Jim Henson and Brian Froud.
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