Some good Old fashioned Fanfic

The tap-tap-tap of a typewriter. The cool summer breeze dancing along the linen drapes. The sour smell of the correction fluid. Kate looks up from the paper and surveys her small homey office. A small room filled with too many books and too few personal affects. Her children hated it here. The many hours they had to sit and wait for mommy to finish bathing a student's dissertation in red. That's probably the reason they never visited anymore. They were all gone now. Off to school or careers, married or drafted. Kate takes a bite of her scone. She's an avid baker. And jam maker. A jack-of-all-trades, but the students just call her: Turabian.

She stands, presently, pulling back the drapes and looking out onto the quad from her third story window. He's late, she thinks, But that's no surprise. She stays standing, looking outside at the trees on the lawn, swaying gently in the breeze and she remembers past summers. Summers that she would never return to. Summers she doesn't want to return to. Just like this city, she thinks, looking past the campus to the high-rises downtown. This city is what it is, not what it was. Like me. The past is known, but the present is a vast, polymorphic branching road of possibilities. I am not defined by the past, but by the decisions I make in the present. Those show who I really am.

"Excuse me, Mrs. Turabian?" comes a voice from the door, breaking her reverie. Turning, Kate sees a young man, dressed in his school browns and holding a book bag in on hand and the stitch in his side with the other.

"Ah, yes. Mr. Marshall, is it?" She asks, though there can be no doubt. She's seen him pass by many times and sometimes from the corner of her eye she sees him standing outside the partially closed door as if to knock and enter, but never bringing himself to stretch out his hand and accept the terrible eventuality that awaits him in this office.

"Yes, John Marshall, ma'am. I'm here about my dissertation."

"Of course. Sit down, Mr. Marshall. I happen to just have finished my revision." John sits. Gulps. Holds his hands in his lap. Kate moves to her desk and picks up the paper she had been working on. Glances it over. Hands it to Mr. Marshall. Hands shaking, John takes it from Mrs. Turabian. He begins to read the red. "It's a good paper, Mr. Marshall, there's no doubt about that, but your conventions are plain atrocious."

"Yes, ma'am." Quietly. Very quietly.

"You seem not to have received even the most basic lessons in punctuation and grammar. Your research and conclusions are revolutionary, I'm sure, but until you master the basics of writing, you will never be taken seriously."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Now, Mr. Marshall, I have been working on a small pamphlet for people who need help with writing dissertations. It's called A Manual for Writers and I'd like you to have the first one."

"Yes, ma'am." Barely a whisper.

Good Heavens, he's scared out of his wits.

"I'm confident that if you revise your paper according to my notes and this pamphlet that this dissertation will live up to all those grand ideas that you have in your head."

"Yes, ma'am." A little stronger.

"Thank you, Mr. Marshall, you may go now."

"Yes, ma'am. Thank you, ma'am." And with that, John stands up and hurries from the room, clutching his dissertation and A Manual for Writers.

That boy needs more help than I can give him, Kate thinks, turning back to her desk and picking up the top pamphlet in the stack of A Manual for Writers's first printing. But hopefully this can make up the difference. She turns again to the window just in time to see the small figure of Mr. Marshall round the bend around the library opposite and disappear. Clutching the pamphlet, she thinks, The present is a myriad of possibilities. Where will my choices take me? Where will this city take me? She loses herself in thought.

Later, She enjoys pizza Chicago Style!

Three Paragraph Essay

Oh my, the words. So many eking out of this place. I'm writing on my laptop that broke the krades. At the end of last school year, my parents came for conference (see below about chinese food). that entry was the last thing I every did on my old computer. It was the last time I ever saw my old back-pack, too. I went to conference the next day with the rents, and when I got back, those objects had been stolen away from me. Someone had walked into my house and stolen my laptop from my desktop. I was quite put off. So I got a netbook for the future use of interwebs and media consumption and possible NaNoWriMo obtainment. (Which are now coming to pass). Also, I went to Wal-Mart at the beginning of the school year for to find an new backpack. Wen I went I found ten dollar packs. I thought it a grand sign of good-will from the universe and left it at that. The face of it was a scene from mario kart. I played that a number of times this last summer and thus thought that I would flaunt the fact that I always got first in our races by having a backpack as a billboard. Recently, the face had been ripping a little and I thought it was cute. The top had almost completely torn from left to right and there was a little tare around the middle going down (But no wheat). Well, given that description, it will make the future telling of what happened more understandable. It snowed recently. I was happy because I finally got to wear all the cold clothing I love to do. When I did, at four thirty in the morning and I ran across the street to get to the other side because a really slow semi-truck was crossing University and I was scared of getting run over by it, even though it was like that one scene in Austin Powers. I don't really feel like Austin is a good British name. My bag ripped when I ran across the street in my large boots. Right down the middle. It was like all those alterpieces I learned about in Humanities 202. My backpack, that is. It now had two doors. Here is the church, here is the steeple, open the doors and all my stuff falls on the asphalt. Thanks a lot, Catholicism. So, my stuff all fell on the road and the semi-truck was barreling toward me at a good 10 miles per hour. I was panicked. I ran and picked everything up and had to go back for seconds because of the sheer amount of things that I had spread like tares upon the ground. I threw my backpack away in the nearest garbage can and just bear-hugged my books all the way to work and then bought a thirty dollar backpack at the BYU bookstore. It's mostly black, but there's some red mixed in. I opened my netbook, though and found that the screen was going crazy with cracks. So, as I write, there are a lot of places on the screen I can't see and have to hope that I spelled everything right. (<-- intro paragraph)

Now that the scene is set, time to tell my story. Today's story = Swan-san. She thinks she's all that. Swan-san is this girl in my Japanese 311R (Conversation class). She was the only girl in the class for a couple weeks because the other lady had some operation and is married. She's from somewhere in WA, so I was automatically attracted to her. She seemed kinda plain to me and her jeans and shoes would agree, but I like her haircut. Then I found out that at eight o'clock she hangs out in the film check-out room in the HFAC, which is where I work and am from 5:00 to 8:30 a.m. in the mornings. So, I started saying hi to her and sometimes asking her questions and I thought that I was making some leeway. I made her laugh a couple times when we talked and she would laugh at some of the things I said in class, so I figured she wanted me hard. A logical thing to assume, but this time these assumptions lived up to their name. Dillon was all over me once about how I need to date more and better and I was all like, fine! Maybe I will! So, I asked Swan-san to go with me to the chemistry magic show. She turned me down. She said she had to go find some boxes for some film she was working on. And she was all like "Well, maybe some other time." and I was all like "Nah, I don't like to go on dates with girls that love cardboard more than magic." Burn. Then I stormed out of the room, leaving her to think about what she just turned down. Who does she even think she is? Words untold. (<--- Body Paragraph)

I'm not a large fan of Las Vegas, I decided. So, when I'm 25, unmarried to Swan-san and wondering what to do with my life and where, I will not list Las Vegas as one of the places to do what I want. If there was a ballot that I could cast to never live in Las Vegas and the world would recognize my decision and say, "Pretty smart guy we got here." then I would, because I love recognition, so validating. Plus, it makes me miss my sunday school class I'ma supposed to teach. Although I did get a jewess to fill in for my discussion of Isaiah, I still really would've liked to be there. With the jewess. Talking about everything that Las Vegas hates, like we're kids in the middle school library trying to tick off all the other babies. Because middle-schoolers hate babies, and carrots. I only ate bagels in MIddle school and capri-suns. I wonder if they could sue me for using their trademark on my published site. I wonder a lot of things. I wish I could still eat through my belly-button. Man, those were the days. (<-- Conclusion paragraph)