III. Xenos

III. Xenos

A Chapter by Writer #00

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III. Xenos

            Mrs. Diaz stepped onto the plane to welcome us a few minutes after it’d landed and come to a halt.  She was a strange combination of young/attractive and artsy/eccentric.  Her hair was an interesting wavy blond.  Not borderline-brown blond, like Sasha’s, or obnoxious lemon-blond like the highlights in Cane’s choppily-cut hair; but a beautiful mixture of the common blond and a platinum, almost-white, blond that, oddly enough, managed to add to her youthful appearance.  Her eyes matched Dale’s in color-- the brown of chocolate mousse--but countered his in terms of their steady and calculating gaze.  On the other hand, she looked like she had the body of a swimsuit model, but decided to hide it (not very successfully) through a trench coat and jeans, she wore an origami hat folded out of old newspapers, and her hands were decorated with about five rings a finger. 

            In short, it was hard to believe either of these women--the young/attractive Mrs. Diaz or the artsy/eccentric Mrs. Diaz--was Dale’s mother.  Other than their eyes, there was no real physical resemblance, and it didn’t seem like Dale was the type to throw anything on his body before exiting the house.  From what I’d seen over the past year as a member of the varsity baseball team, Dale was more than likely the most neatly dressed guy out of us all.  He seemed to have a thing for striped button-down shirts.  Like Kami’s obsession with long sleeves and sweatshirts or my tendency to wear the same thing every day…stylistically, not literally.  I change.

            “Ooookaaay CH BBT~!” She greeted enthusiastically, all the energy she possessed seeming to snap the team into attentiveness, “Saaaluuutations~ and welcome to the Diaz Summer Island, where the ocean’s clear, the vegetation is lush, and all your wildest dreams can come true~!” She winked at me (well, probably the whole team) as she said this. “You all may recognize me from the informational meeting your Coach and I held at your school in May, but just in case you’ve forgotten my face, I’m Mrs. Diaz, the co-head counselor and nurse here on this lovely summer island retreat~!  If you’re feeling ill or scraped an elbow sliding in for third, I’m the gal to come to~.  And if you have any questions on the whereabouts of the island, then you can come to me about that, too, or you can contact any of my assistants--“ she walked out of my view, presumably to the plane’s exit, and cheerily shouted: “--Come on in and introduce yourselves, counselors~!”

            “Can’t we introduce ourselves off the plane, Miss?!” an Irish-accented male called (at least, the voice sounded masculine…but there were the exceptions), “The wee one’s’ve prob’ly been sittin’ there ‘til their legs’ve gone numb!”

            Mrs. Diaz accommodated accordingly and efficiently, wasting no time to agree and herd the team off the plane in under five minutes.   I checked my bags the moment my shoes touched the cement of the island’s runway: two duffel bags (one with toiletries, clothes, and other essentials; the other stuffed with athletic equipment for when Coach had us train) and a small backpack.  Mrs. Diaz wrestled her way to the front of our group, getting our attention with a resounding:

            “Ooookaaay boys~” she must’ve spotted Kami because she soon added, “and girl~!  We’ll continue the introductory messages once we arrive at our quote-unquote Mess Hall~!  After paying to rent a private jet and this little 40-acre of paradise for two weeks along with other expenses, there wasn’t enough grant money left for the construction of a Mess Hall~! But fear not, we will simply have to use the summer home already installed~!”

            The last part earned a number of expectant gasps from the team, and it didn’t seem as if any of them held any qualms about making the three-mile, uphill hike (with our bags, mind you) to arrive at said summer home.  Of course, about a half a mile in, complaints began to be heard to which Coach Jung would  periodically respond:

            “This is an endurance training exercise!  Repeat after me:  Endure, endure, endure!”

            And the team would respond with a weak echo that shamed not only Conifer Heights, but the whole realm of high school baseball.


            At the start of the hike, I’d made sure to find Kami who was holding a rather friendly-sounding conversation with Cane near the front.  Apparently they’d become a lot closer during the plane ride.  I decided not to butt-in, seeing interacting voluntarily with Cane after three years of awkward avoidance as a tear that had grown so wide over time that mending it would take too much skill.  Instead, I drifted to the back, unseen by either of them, and readjusted my bags for about the tenth time in the last five minutes.  I desperately wished I’d done what it seemed most of the team’d done and brought my phone, that way I could’ve been listening to some piano concertos to pass the time.

            “What?  Piano concertos?  As in instrumental, classical music?  But you’re a teenage boy!  What are you doing listening to Schoenberg and Schumann?!” I’ve heard some unappreciative peers ask from time to time upon viewing my playlist.

            Usually, I just ignored such inquiries, primarily because I didn’t have a sufficient answer.  I like the way pianos sound when played properly in these particular genres.  It was a preference--like listening to rock or pop--and that’s pretty much all it boils down to.  I lie.  And since I have fifty minutes or so, I will now bore you with a mini-digression that, if I had to give an actual, cinematic reason to drowning (okay, bad choice of words) myself in the chords and melodies of recorded piano, would be my answer:

            There was a time, maybe eight or nine years ago, when I played the piano.  I had this amazing private teacher, Chad Something (I know, he was so amazing I even forgot his last name).  He was a renowned pianist--played all over the world in the top orchestras and eventually making big money from a solo career (well, mostly solo, sometimes he’d accompany his wife who had the voice of…something with a nice voice).  Their house was amazing, two-storied with an elegant Victorian façade and at least two acres of land surrounding it complete with a pond-gazebo ornamentation in the back.  Okay, to be honest, I don’t remember much about the inside of their house…just bits and pieces…because I was always focused on the keys.  Those sophisticated, supremely polished, black and white piano keys.  I remember the piano crisply: a baby grand, custom-built glass.

            “Why do you have a glass piano,” I asked him once, his being the only one I ever saw.

            As an answer, Chad would play something, like La Fille aux Cheveux de Lin (my favorite Debussy piece, I play it in my head when I need to calm down), and tell me in his soft, Cuban accent: “Look at the hammers, Harrison.  See how they tap the strings?  That’s how the sound is made, that’s how a pianist makes his music.  That’s why I have a glass piano, because it doesn’t leave any part of the music out: everything is a part of the performance.  Nothing is hidden.”

            That was my last session with him.  Due to a demotion on my Dad’s job and Mom’s company losing everything as a result of some fraud in accounting, my parents could no longer pay for any classes.  A month later, Chad died, and I haven’t played the piano since…

            “Hey, Shortstop.”  There was no doubt that that was Weston’s voice.  He insisted on calling me that, even though I’d always been back-up on any actual team. “What’s the matter?”

            I gave him a look of confusion; then cursed myself.  I must’ve started looking a bit crestfallen from my mental tangent on my dead piano teacher.

            “West?!”  I fake-surprise-exclaimed, remembering what Mom’d said, “What are you doing here?”

            I must not have pulled off the surprise part very well, because he just gave me a look that said, well, exactly what he did say, actually: “Who told you?”

            “Mom.  I was supposed to act surprised, though.”

            West patted me on the back, laughing slightly, “You’d make a horrid actor.  So, what’s the matter.  And don’t say ‘nothing’.”

            Shucks (yes, I say ‘shucks’…deal with it), he hadn’t given up.  That’s something else I loved/hated about my brother.  Persistence.  However, I knew that talking about Chad would only advance my emotions of minor sadness (we actually had an unofficial rule that Chad was an off-limits topic in our house), and the last thing I needed was to stop in the middle of the trail and cry into my big bwudda’s arms with everyone watching.   As if his being here for two weeks wouldn’t be humiliating enough.

            “I’d tell you, but you’d call me a wimp,” I stalled, brain whirring for a false cause of sadness.

            “No I won’t.  When have I ever, ever, made fun of you when you were feeling blue?”

            “Blue?  Really?” I teased, looking up at him, “Is this what three years of art school has done to you?”

            West laughed (probably because he secretly missed my joshing around about his International University of Visual and Performing Arts), but returned to business immediately after: “Seriously, Shortstop, what’s bothering you?”

            “Alright, if you must know, it’s the hike plus my luggage plus this incline,” I lied-ish (because it wasn’t really a lie, now that I’d switched that over to the cause of my discomfort, I was really starting to feel the burn in my forceps, wait, no, that’s a surgical tool…whatever ‘ceps feel the burn from long-distance heavy lifting), “Doesn’t sit well with my arms.  I’m dying.”

            West  just gave me a sympathetic look, spreading his arms out as if in apology for what he was about to say: “Endurance, endurance, endurance!”

            I would have much rathered: “Give me one of your bags.”  So that I could’ve made him carry the one with my 33” metal bat in it (that thing’s knob was seriously determined to lodge itself in my rib cage).


            The Messummer home-hall looked like it’d been built for a woodsy retreat.  It was essentially a mansion-esque, residential log cabin mounted on platforms above a hill of gently-swaying grasses. Walking into the building, I was reminded of the times when I’d visited Cane’s house in elementary.  We’d go outside--maybe to play catch at Meadow or haphazardly in a vacant street--and when we’d return to his house, his Mom’d already have lunch out on the table, the aroma of cheddar-broccoli soup or maybe cream of mushroom perfuming the air and titillating our hungry little stomachs. Entering the “Mess Hall” was just like that, except that the air was pervaded by the smell of pasta and some type of gravy instead of soup, and I was crossing the threshold behind West instead of with Cane and/or Kami.

            Though the outside of the Mess hall was in touch with nature, keeping up the illusion of natural immersion, the inside totally brought my mind back to contemporary comfort.  The color scheme was a modern cream-brown and olive green, simplistic and composed.  All the walls were a solid color, alternating from face to face, with broad windows whose frames and shutters gently complimented the hue of whatever wall they were a part of.

            “Nice place, isn’t it Laddie?”  West affirmed behind me, practicing his Irish accent, I supposed since he was a performing arts major.

            “Eh,” I replied, not turning around as Mrs. Diaz led us to the grand dining hall, “I feel like I flew all the way out to the Pacific for no reason.  You like it, West?”

            I was surprised because he usually didn’t go for modern, which is why he had always been coming over to Chad’s place with a camera, photographing the old house and its classic style.  This place was the exact opposite of that.  It even had hardwood flooring, which West hated because of its potential to burn.

            “Laddie, look at me,” West ordered.

            “O…kay, but would you drop the accent?  I think it needs some wor--“ I started, doing as West requested.

            It was not West practicing his Irish accent, but some guy (presumably a counselor) who actually did have an Irish accent.

            “Not Weston, now am I?” the counselor said, pointing a finger at his incredibly tanned  face and thick curly hair for emphasis.

            I glanced at the lanyard around his neck, its nametag reading: Felix.

            “Oh sorry F--“ I was cut off by Mrs. Diaz’s need to welcome us to the dining room in that bubbly way of hers:

            “Ooookaaay~!” she sing-songed, turning around to face us from the other side of the long, mahogany table, “Have a seat and your lunch will be out shortly~!”

            “Where do you want them to put their bags, Miss?” the Irish counselor, Felix, asked her, seeing as there was barely enough room for the twenty-five people stuffed in the dining area.

            “Greeeeeaaat question~!” She then addressed the team, “You guys can just leave them in the living room next door~!”

            We groaned (why couldn’t she have told us that as we entered?) and began exiting the dining room in a weary, methodical fashion.  It reminded me of the trail of ants Salem would periodically see in her closet…but bigger and slower and more sweaty.

            “Why don’ I take your bags, Laddie?” Felix offered, already reaching for one.

            “Um…that’s okay,” I protested, tugging my duffel closer to me, “I’m fine.”

            “Really, Lad?  I could’ve sworn I o’er heard you complainin’ to Weston abou’ the hike,” he castigated, “you must be rather worn.”

            “Why don’t you help…” I looked around for someone he could assist, “Sasha?  He’s been through a lot today, and it would probably mean much to him.”

            Felix smiled, trying to mask the reluctance of having to surrender my bags for Sasha’s.

            “Won’erful,” he stated, green eyes narrowing in just the faintest way so that I couldn’t be sure I’d seen it, “I’ll do that.”


            Over lunch, which consisted of rotini pasta, beef and its gravy, and an assorted vegetables salad, Mrs. Diaz animatedly continued her protracted welcoming of Conifer Heights to the Island of Ichthyes.  She told us all the many different activities she had available for us to do when training was over each day, becoming extremely giddy upon the mentioning of a nightly campfire.  Finally, she introduced the counselors and staff: Coach Jung (whom she jokingly spoke of as if we’d never in our life heard of him), Mrs. Castillion (the cook, who made sure we understood that a pair of us would be helping her cook each day), JJ Walker (he was the lifeguard, and his skin was so burned it made me wonder if he was trying to be an example of why one should always wear sun-block), and Felix.

            After these introductions, Coach Jung stood up and introduced my brother as his official assistant who’d be “helping the team hone its skills and turn their weaknesses to strengths.”  I could tell Weston was very much flattered by such an intro, but worried he wouldn’t be able to work up to those expectations.  Maybe I’d talk to him about it later to get back for the hike.  We were all about to get up and place our dishes in a stack on the counter, when Coach Jung stood up once more and made another announcement:

            “As you all know,” he began, motioning for us to stay seated, “Dale is going to be leaving Conifer Heights for college this August.”

            This reminder was greeted by mixed emotions of congratulatory applause and despondent ‘aww’s as people thought about one of the best pitchers in the history of Conifer Heights’ baseball leaving for good.  Coach waited a moment for us to re-take it in (though, in all honesty, I was taking it pretty well considering he was a senior and graduation was a part of the inevitable cycle of education…so we knew all year that this would be his last year) before telling us to quiet down and continuing.

            “Consequently, we will need a new first pitcher for next year’s team--“

            Chatter and fascinated whispers.

            “--Whom I have already chosen.

            The dining hall hushed instantly.  I could see Henry Giroux, one of the three pitchers and twin brother to Mill, straighten up expectantly, an ‘I’ve-got-this-in-the-bag’ smile smugly crossing his lips.

            “Her name--“ (Henry’s shoulders slumped) “--is Rosa Castillion.”

            A girl about my age came out of the kitchen and waved, smiling with closed lips, then disappeared back inside.

            “Rosa, come to the front with me and introduce yourself,” Coach half demanded half suggested.

            Rosa obliged, walking briskly and stiffly over to him, her black ringlets of hair bouncing wildly over her face like a fibrous veneer.  To my surprise, she appeared completely composed and sure of herself after one quick inhale-exhale.  The one eye that showed through her hair swept the team coldly, her dark iris and pupil like a soul-sucking void of darkness.  Any inappropriate jokes involving her gender stopped abruptly.  Evidently, she gave the whole team the creeps…and it didn’t help that her hands were stained red.

            “Hello, I’m Rosa Castillion (as Coach just said) and I’ll be your new first pitcher,” she waved genially, and flashed another closed-lipped smile, “I don’t want you guys treating me any differently just because I’m the only girl on the team--“ I heard Kami ‘ahem’ “--so just treat me like one of the boys.  Any questions?”

            Another surprise: despite Rosa’s appearance, her voice was actually rather hospitable-sounding, which meant that any ‘creeps’ the team possessed were soon dispelled.  Which meant questions like this:

            “Is that blood on your hands?” our catcher, Pacer, asked casually.

            “Wha?--“ Rosa paid a swift look at the red tainting her hands, “Oh!  No, no.  I was helping my mother with tonight’s dessert…strawberry pie, hope you guys enjoy it.  Any other questions?”

            “Why are you here?” Mason, the first right-fielder, wondered, his voice muffled by the checkered bandana he liked to wear over his mouth.

            Rosa ignored his hateful tone and answered politely, “Well, as I previously stated, I’m going to be next year’s first pitcher.  I came to the retreat to get to know the team and learn a few tips from this year’s first pitcher.”

            “No,” Mason clarified, sighing irritably, “I mean: why are you already here?  Where were you on the plane?”

            “Oh, sorry about that--completely misunderstood your question.  My mom’s the cook, so she had to arrive a week early with the rest of the staff, and since I don’t have anyone else I could’ve stayed with for a week, Mrs. Diaz let me come with her.”

            (“Yes I did~!” Mrs. Diaz felt the need to affirm.)

            Mason nodded, satisfied.

            “Any more questions?”

            Mill raised his hand, and I already knew his remark was going to be on the perverted side even before he opened his mouth.

            “You told us to treat you like one of the boys, right?” Mill reiterated, running his fingers through his hair (which was longer than his twin’s).

            Rosa’s smile weakened, as if anticipating what was to come, “That’s…right.”

            “So does that mean we’ll be in the same cabi--“

            “No.” Rosa answered flatly, that cold, adamant gaze returning, this time concentrated on Mill, “And I’d make sure your helmet’s on tight when I pitch to you during training tomorrow.”

            As is customary following a remark of such boldness, an awkward silence ensued in which Mill’s arms (perfectly visible with his tank top) polka-dotted with goose bumps and the team didn’t even make eye-contact as she retreated to the kitchen.

            “Ooookaaay~!” Mrs. Diaz broke the silence, “I’ll tell you all which cabin to go to, give you a couple hours to get situated, then (if it’s all right with your coach) let you all hit the beach~!  Don’t forget your bags~!”


            The cabins weren’t too far from the Mess hall, luckily, so I could resist Felix’s suspicious (yet still tempting) offer to carry my bags (why was he so set on helping me?  I don’t know).  Unluckily, I’d been dumped in Cabin 2 with two out of my five other cabinmates being people with whom I had an uneasy time interacting.  Yep, Dale and Cane (once again, I really don’t mind either of them…just the noncomical awkwardness being around them created).  Henry, Pacer, and Bobbie Benson (our back-up right fielder) were my other group members. I didn’t know enough about these three to really form an opinion of ‘like’ or ‘dislike’ over.  They seemed like nice people.  Pacer and Bobbie were pretty relaxed.  Henry, on the other hand, was giving off steams of anger in regard to the news that he was not to be Dale’s successor into first pitcherhood.  And although his attitude made me nervous, it still wasn’t as bad as this sad little fact: our supervising counselor was Felix.  Guess what the first thing he did was?  He asked to help me unpack--as if this open-air cabin had any place for one to store one’s materials.

            “That’s okay,” I assured him, plopping my duffel bags atop the bed I’d just claimed below Bobbie, “I’m fine.”

            Felix shook his head, “If you say so, Bumblebee.”

            I furrowed my brow, not sure if the counselor’d been trying to insult me or not.  Bumblebee?  What happened to Laddie?

            “Pardon me?” I asked, not turning to look at him.

            “ ‘If you say so, Bumblebee’,” Pacer repeated, sitting on the bed adjacent to mine and beginning to take out his sleeping bag and pillow, “He called you a bumblebee.”

            “Okay, I wasn’t sure if I’d misheard him.” I addressed Felix next, “What do you mean by that, exactly?”

            Felix laughed, “I’ve gotta terrible mem’ry for names, so I give everyone a nickname based on a trait of theirs.”

            That was totally unhelpful.  What about me was bumblebee-ish?  Was he saying I was annoying?  That I had a stinger attached to my butt? 

            Felix came closer to me, holding his hand out palm down.

            “What are you doing?” I inquired.

            He ran a hand over my hair.  “Buzzzzzzzzzzzzcut.”

            Haha.  Very funny.  I had a buzzcut.  Bees buzz.  Therefore: I was bumblebee.  But you know what?  I have an allergy to bees, so I didn’t appreciate the nickname much.  However, I was too tired to say anything about it.  Tired, full of good food, and the sun was beating warmly through the trees and into the cabin by way of paneless windows (which were essentially half the walls, making the top bunkers (Bobbie, Henry, and Cane) susceptible to mosquitoes and other insects).  I put on some insect repellent while the thought was on my mind, then I took out my sleeping bag and pillow, pushed my bags under the bed, and decided to finally take a nap…


…which didn’t last too long because, before I knew it, someone was kneeling next to my bed, shaking me like a dog would a chew toy.  I was still disoriented and bleary from my minutes of rest, gasping for air after the beginnings of another sleep paralysis incident.  This one was different, though, and still fresh in my mind: I’d been drowning, as usual, when something--its fingers wet and slimy like kelp--began to run itself over my body, trapping me in some sort of cocoon--no--coffin.  I’d tried to struggle, but there was nothing I could do but endure the ensuing panic and gradually tightening grip of kelp around my neck.  That was it.  Then I was jostled awake by who I could now see was Felix.

            I rubbed my eyes.  Why.

            “Phew,” Felix exhaled, stepping back from me and standing up, “I was beginnin’ to worry there’d be no gettin’ through to you, Laddie.”

            “What are you talking about?” I groaned sleepily, “Why’d you wake me up?”

            Felix shrugged, stretching his arms overhead.  “It looked like you were havin’ a nigh’mare, so I said to myself: ‘Felix.  What type o’ host would’ya be if you let your guest continue suff’rin’ like that?’ and I foun’ that I replied: ‘Not a very good guest, Felix.  I should do somethin’ abou’ it.’ and so I did what I could.  You were asleep for a good ten minutes ‘fore I was able to get through to you.  Had me quite worried, Laddie.”

            I rubbed my forehead, trying to grasp what he’d just said.  “You…woke me up because you thought I was having a nightmare.” (Or would it be noonmare?)

            “Not that I simply thought it, Laddie, but because I knew it.  I could tell you were havin’ one of ‘em scarers.”

            “But…how.  How could you tell what the nature of my dream was?  Did I move?”  (And if I did then I guess I hadn’t been having sleep paralysis after all.)

            Felix shook his head.  “Nope.  Not at all.  You were as limp as a dead fish.” (Boy was I glad all my other roommates had left the cabin by now (except Cane, who was successfully sleeping) and weren’t here to hear me being likened to a fish corpse).

            “But then…” my voice trailed off as I tried to think about various tell-tell signs one’s paralyzed body could give that it was nightmaring.

            There was a rap at the cabin’s door jambs (because the door itself was merely an opening, like the windows, and didn’t have anything other than a frame to knock on).  Felix and I turned to see who was knocking.

            “Anyone undressing in there, Felix~!” Mrs. Diaz asked, covering her eyes and stretching out her arm to feel around as she entered.

            “Nope, Miss.  There’s barely anyone in here, actually.” Felix answered, “Just Bumblebee.”

            “Oh~!  Like it, you’re already giving cute little nicknames~!” She turned to look at me as I sat on the edge of my bed, “Do you like it here so far, Bumblebee~?”

            I think my left eye involuntarily twitched.  “Sure.”

            “Ooookaaay~!” Mrs. Diaz burst out happily, as if my ambivalent ‘sure’ were the best thing in the whole world, “That’s good~!  You see, the organization that’s sponsoring this little retreat is Xenos Industry.  Do you know what xenos is, Bumblebee~?”

            Mrs. Diaz was now directly above me, and I had to crane my neck up to look her in the eyes.  I did know what xenos was, actually--the ancient Greek concept of hospitality to strangers based on the belief that anyone might really be a god in disguise--, but I don’t think I ever answered due to what happened next.  She lowered herself to my sitting-level, patting my head (apparently, buzzcuts were vey inviting), and as she did this, I saw the pendant at the end of her necklace: a silver fish curled around one side of an amber orb as if it were protecting it.

            Quick images of watery light, a shadowy figure, overwhelming water.  All of this flooded my mind in one piercing wave.  I clutched my head.  The headache was bad, but not as bad as it’d been the first time I’d seen the pendant.

             She’d worn the same pendant in May during the Icthyes Island retreat informational meeting.  I remembered because I’d felt what I was feeling now--tortured, vulnerable, nauseas, pained, the unmistakable feeling that death was around the corner--only tenfold.  It was the same pendant that had triggered this vicious cycle of paralysis and haunting dreams.

© 2013 Writer #00

Author's Note

Writer #00
Ooookaaay~! Here's chapter three of SOS, uploaded by 'tonight' as planned. Thanks for readind/viewing/reviewing, and hope you enjoy(ed) it. I appreciate feedback, as always, and pointing out any errors you may have noticed (because, despite my revisions after I type each chapter, I'm sure I've still missed something--there's always room for improvement!). Something I was unsure about was the way I introduced Chad...maybe it seemed too random, I dunno, tell me what you think if you feel like it. : )

Thanks again~!

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Chapter 3= knew to new (on the part where Rosa is introducing herself). Okay, sorry for randomly popping up and giving random corrections that I probably shouldn't have. ^-^ Sorry 'bout that, Writer # 00.
Aside from the overwhelming characters which are needed to make the plot move and make it more stationery, I just need to keep a steady note of everybody.
So far, this chapter is as detailed as the first two ones (sorry for the extreme lateness). I can feel and hear your characters as if I am one with them and that is a good thing. Harri, Felix, Mrs. Diaz, Cane, Kami, Rosa, Shasha and everybody did a great job on making an impression. (:
Therefore, I applaud you for doing such a great job on this. And I knew that you really researched and prepared for this wonderful story. Thanks a lot and stay cool, bro.

Posted 10 Years Ago

Rhianne Ney

10 Years Ago

:D Haha, sure. I will read through the others once I get off this busy schedule
Writer #00

10 Years Ago

I know! I'm really busy, too! >.<
Rhianne Ney

10 Years Ago

:D Yeah~ can relate
I'm back from vacation and eager to review. Okay, I'm rolling up my sleeves and getting my pretty a** to work.

Answering to your question, the way you introduced Chad seemed rather natural. It wasn't random at all.

However, I have to admit that I got a little bit lost in the crowd of characters. It may be because I had a two-week break from your book though... It's just there are multiple characters and each one of them has its own unique personality (what earns you a pat on the head from me, I hate when the characters are pieces of cardboard). I'd like to see how the story will progress. So far I got those little snippets of the upcoming trouble and met main hero and his fearless companions ;-) I'm really curious about the box from mom and the adventure...

I'll be serving you a roundhouse kick for the overuse of brackets as well. I won't count them this time ;-) You could just go ahead and drop them. The 1st person narration is as POV as it could get and you could omit the brackets (but leave the sentences that are in them) without aby loss.

Overall, good job!

Posted 10 Years Ago

Writer #00

10 Years Ago

I know, there are WAY too many characters, most of which, to be honest, don't serve any real purpose.. read more

10 Years Ago

You're welcome. I'm afraid that the parentheses will have to go... I suppose that all the tedious ed.. read more
Writer #00

10 Years Ago

Most definitely O.O
It might just be my natural way of viewing things, but Felix seems a bit... rapey...

Posted 10 Years Ago

Writer #00

10 Years Ago

Thanks for the advice. Obviously, I don't know much about Irish dialects or Ireland, so I haven't g.. read more
Brandon Langley

10 Years Ago

If there was a balance, I would think it to be Scottish, which I stayed in for about the same time, .. read more
Writer #00

10 Years Ago

Okay, thanks. When I go through to edit, I'll probably change Felix to "Scottish". I can't really .. read more
hhhmmm multiple nicknames, Bumblebee and Catmouth! Anyway it seems like he and the team will have some adventure for this trip! I hope it turns out well (but technically in stories they are not suppose to be other wise it wouldn't be called a story for the first place). I still want to know wht the mother wanted to get rid of! Well It wasn't too random the way you introduced Chad. It would be random if you didn't explain how Chad meant to him. Anyways great chapter! Hope you make the fourth!

Posted 10 Years Ago

Writer #00

10 Years Ago

Yep, don't forget Harri! Do you think that's too many...as in, it might become too confusing? Than.. read more

10 Years Ago

You finish your chapter 4 and take your time. I have my episode 5B halfway there! But as you get fur.. read more
Writer #00

10 Years Ago

I shall take my time and I can't wait for 5B (but don't rush it!).

Okay, I'll take th.. read more

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4 Reviews
Added on July 2, 2013
Last Updated on August 29, 2013
Tags: song, of, the, sirens, SOS, baseball, fantasy, island, retreat


Writer #00
Writer #00


I'm participating in the Summer Writing Project through Jukepop.com, an online serial website, those entering had to submit a novella on Jukepop.com. The finalists will be decided by the number of +V.. more..

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