Endings Are Hard. So Are First Lines.

We all judge books by their covers. We know we shouldn’t, but sometimes it just happens, right? On some level, even subconsciously, our personal preferences come into play when we look at the cover of a book, and we make that ultimate decision: Is this a book I want to read?

Yeah, covers are mighty important for any author or publisher. But you know what else is important?

First lines.

Every book is different. Some will lure you in with ambiguity and subtle hints at what is to come. Others will toss you firmly into the middle of the action. But the goal is the same — hook the reader in.

If you don’t do that with the first line, you mightn’t do it at all.

Personally, I think you know you’ve found a ripper of a read when you can quote that first line (or even the first paragraph!) back to people. They’re the kinds of lines that people will remember through the ages, that your readers will use as a way of judging if they want to turn the page, or put your book back on the shelf.

No pressure.

With this in mind, I went back over some of my short stories, and decided to post their first lines. Some of them are okay. Some of them… Not so much. But that’s okay — nobody said that first lines were meant to be easy, and I shall simply endeavour to improve!

Here are a collection of my firsties:

• “She looks like an angel, all blue-eyed and rosy-cheeked.”
• “Happy, smiling faces are neither happy nor smiling once they start to burn.”
• “A shrill whistle pierced the air as the monorail rattled into the station, bringing with it a peculiar scent of burnt metal and banana bread.”
• “The Cave is all that there is, was, and ever will be.”
• “Lucas chewed thoughtlessly on the end of his pencil, filling his mouth with the taste of painted wood.”
• “The robot sat weeping in the corner, to the growing concern of the scientists who observed it.”

But when you struggle with finding a clincher, it’s always nice to turn to the classics. Without further ado, I present:

LOVE THE BAD GUY’S “FIRST LINE” CHALLENGE

Contestants, put your hands on the buzzers! (Or, you know… close down your Google Tab. No cheating, now!)

Below, I have typed out some of the more brilliant opening lines (only the first one or two sentences) of fiction novels — some of my personal favourites. Answers at the bottom of the post. Let me know how you all do!

1. “It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a  good fortune, must be in want of a wife.”
2. “There is no lake at Camp Green Lake.”
3. “It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen.”
4. “It was love at first sight. The first time Yossarian saw the chaplain he fell madly in love with him.”
5. “Mr and Mrs Dursley, of number four Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much.”
6. “All this happened, more or less.”
7. “This is my favorite book in all the world, though I have never read it.”
8. “Mr. Utterson the lawyer was a man of a rugged countenance that was never lighted by a smile; cold, scanty and embarrassed in discourse; backward in sentiment; lean, long, dusty, dreary and yet somehow lovable.”
9. “When I wake up, the other side of the bed is cold.”
10. “Alice was beginning to get very tired of sitting by her sister on the bank, and of having nothing to do: once or twice she had peeped into the book her sister was reading, but it had no pictures or conversations in it, ‘and what is the use of a book,’ thought Alice ‘without pictures or conversation?’”
11. “My father’s family name being Pirrip, and my Christian name Philip, my infant tongue could make of both names nothing longer or more explicit than Pip. So, I called myself Pip, and came to be called Pip.”
12. “My name was Salmon, like the fish; first name, Susie.  I was fourteen when I was murdered on December 6, 1973.”

So, readers, what makes a great first line? Any other personal favourites that you’d like to share?

- Love The Bad Guy

Answers:

1. Pride and Prejudice — Jane Austen
2. Holes – Louis Sachar
3. 1984 – George Orwell
4. Catch-22 – Joseph Heller
5. Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone – J.K. Rowling
6. Slaughterhouse-Five – Kurt Vonnegut
7. The Princess Bride — William Goldman
8. Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde — Robert Louis Stevenson
9. The Hunger Games – Suzanne Collins
10. Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland – Lewis Carroll
11. Great Expectations — Charles Dickens
12. The Lovely Bones – Alice Sebold

Hug Me, I’m Aussie

Do you know what today is, readers?

It’s a very special day.

It’s Hug an Australian Day! The perfect day to drawl out a friendly “Maaaaate”, eat a meat pie and sing boisterous verses of John Farnham’s “You’re the Voice”.

Soooo… Who wants to give me a big ol’ virtual hug? I’m rather cuddly.

- Love The Bad Guy

Your Foolish To Have Not Edited You’re Work

I am a grammar whore. Any of my readers who can identify with me are sure to appreciate this:

- Love The Bad Guy

Where’s The “Love” Button?

WordPress has kindly informed me that my lil’ blog just received its 500th “like”.

To that, I say…

I LIKE YOU GUYS, TOO! 

- Love The Bad Guy

“Backwards with Bert and Nathaniel” – Part Three

Hello once again, my dear readers. I present you with Part Three of Sophie’s Backwards with Bert and Nathaniel – the epic conclusion! … Or at least some kind of conclusion. Call it what you will.

Need to read the last part? Click here. Want to start from the beginning? Here.

We left Bert and Nathaniel as they contemplated the toaster’s origins. And so we continue…

Backwards with Bert and Nathaniel

Nathaniel kept his unblinking gaze locked onto the mystery, every now and again murmuring, “Maybe … No wait, that’s utterly stupid.”

The two men continued to stare, both as still as stone, but for the small movements of their head when they tilted it to a new angle. Finally, Bert heaved a sigh. “Well, I could be wrong, but don’t some countries use white goods in their military? As weaponry, you know?” His old friend quirked a single eyebrow, and Bert continued, somewhat defensively, “I’m sure they do! And if they don’t they should. White goods have proven to be quite dangerous in the wrong circumstances. Remember that time my uncle Michael went to Canada? There he was, enjoying a quiet holiday, and then BAM! Crushed by a two hundred pound refrigerator.”

The blonde-haired man pinched the bridge of his nose tiredly. “Is this theory going anywhere, Bert?”

“Well, what I’m saying is …” He looked around conspiratorially, then whispered, “It could have been a trained foreign militant, couldn’t it?”

Nathaniel sighed. “I suppose so. But they have no motive.”

“Ah well.”

“It could have been that Mrs Smith down the street!” Nathaniel cried triumphantly. “You’ve told me how there have been some tensions between her and the other neighbours. And you—she hates you. Motive!”

Bert shook his head, seemingly unbothered by the declaration of Mrs Smith’s loathing for him. “Nah, the Smiths are in Guam.”

“… I won’t ask how you know that.” The older man suddenly clicked his fingers. “I’ve got it! It’s not really a toaster at all! … It’s a metaphor! The toaster is symbolic of your pent-up aggression, as well as your guilt complex and unsatisfactory sex life. It was you, expressing yourself in a non-verbal, metaphorical sense! It’s brilliant—brilliant, I tell you!” He jovially slapped Bert on the shoulder. “Nice one.”

Bert reached around and smoothly removed Nathaniel’s hand. “That’s ridiculous. I was on the other side of the room; how could I possibly have thrown the bloody thing? And anyway, why would I use a toaster of all things to express my aggression and guilt and such?”

“It’s all representative,” Nathaniel explained, enunciating clearly as though he were speaking to a child. “You’re like a toaster, you see. Your feelings are cooking inside you until POP—they are released. That’s why a toaster. But why are you asking me? It was you who did it.”

They looked at each other, pondering the concept, with Nathaniel’s eyes darkened by deep contemplation, and Bert’s depthless in naïve thought.

Together, they flailed their hands in overt denial. “Naaah.”

“Ridiculous,” Bert said.

“Preposterous,” Nathaniel agreed.

“Unimaginable,” Bert enthused.

“But … ” Nathaniel hummed.

“But?” Bert cried. “What but?”

Nathaniel massaged the back of his neck in increasing discomfort. “It’s just that …” he sighed deeply. “Well, Bert, it’s not like this is the first time you’ve created an extensive metaphor to compensate for gaps in your psyche, now is it?”

Bert blinked, all blue-eyed innocence and confusion. “It’s not?”

“No, it’s not,” Nathaniel confirmed, looking suddenly weary. “Bert, hypothetically, and all toasters aside, do you think you could go on alone if the situation called for it?”

Bert smiled tentatively. “Come now, Nathaniel. Why do you say that?”

“Well, I just think we should be prepared, should the situation arise.”

“Oh, I’m sure it won’t.”

“I actually don’t thing you quite get my meaning, Bert.”

“Nonsense, ’course I do!”

“No, really—”

“Hey Nathaniel, do you think I could—”

“BERT! Listen to me!” Nathaniel tugged at his hair like a man gone mad. “For the love of good gravy, just listen.”

Even following this wild display of frustration, Bert seemed vaguely oblivious to his friend’s distress. He turned his back and, upon finding a long forgotten tea cup on the table, proceeded to the kitchen to fix himself a fresh brew. He returned to the dining room, where Nathaniel’s teeth, grinding against one another, emitted a gritty sound that was strangely loud in the empty room.

Bert’s eyes remained caught in a hazy blue hue. Upon reaching the table, he lowered himself to sit, though no chair was beneath him. Startled, Nathaniel rushed forward and crouched on all fours beneath the man. Bert sat, and Nathaniel winced beneath his weight. Only now did that depthlessness of Bert’s eyes fade away; looking down, he finally acknowledged his friend’s presence with a jolly, “Hello Nathaniel! Fancy seeing you here! What are you doing down there? I seem to recall you being taller.”

Nathaniel gasped out a reply, arms trembling from strain. “I’ve been here for the past three hours, Bert. We’ve been discussing the investigation.”

“Really?” Bert said, slurping pleasantly from his tea cup. “Huh. I plum forgot! It’s going well, though, don’t you think?”

“Quite,” Nathaniel sighed. “But I’m afraid I have some rather upsetting news …”

“Yes?” Bert questioned. He crossed his legs contently, appearing to have no intention of rising from his seated position on his friend’s trembling frame. “Well, best be out with it, before the tea wears off and I become grumpy. That will happen in about …”—he checked his watch—“half an hour, give or take a minute. As you know, I tend to take thing better after I’ve had a spot of tea.”

“Well, I don’t think it will take that long,” Nathaniel muttered, shuffling from the increasing pain in his shoulders and knees.

Bert smiled. “Excellent, excellent. Why, upsetting news of that magnitude would be quite horrid. And when combined with the effects of the tea wearing off, well …”

“Please, Bert. This is hard enough already.”

“Yes, well, get on with it then. It’s growing dark—night is approaching.”

Nathaniel shuddered beneath Bert as his muscles screamed for relief. “It’s two in the bloody afternoon, Bert.”

Bert nodded sagely. “Exactly.”

“Okay,” the older man consented, hoping to urge the conversation on. “There is no easy way to say what I’ve got to say, so I’ll just come out with it, shall I?”

“I think that would be best. Should I sit down?”

Nathaniel hung his head, hiding behind the cloak of his blonde hair as he took three steady breaths. “You’re already sitting on me, Bert. But perhaps a chair?”

The young man immediately rose, much to Nathaniel’s relief, and moved to a chair without a word of protest. Gently stretching his tired arms, the fair-haired man remained standing as he confessed, “I haven’t been completely honest with you, Bert.”

Bert’s eyes widened with the wondrous appearance of a little boy. “Why, whatever are you talking about?”

“Bert …” Nathaniel paused, squared his shoulders, and continued with a firm, unyielding voice. “I am not real. I am a figment of your imagination. Well, more accurately, I am a manifestation of all your more assertive qualities.” His announcement finally concluded, Nathaniel fell into the nearest chair, holding his head. “There, I said it.”

Bert, meanwhile, was gaping like a dying fish. Nathaniel waited patiently until the furious splutterings formed actual words. “I beg your pardon?!”

“Try to understand,” his old friend pleaded, but Bert continued to stammer quiet protests. “I’m sorry, Bert, but now that that’s been said, I can’t really stay, can I?”

“But this can’t be …” Bert denied desperately. Those youthful pools of blue met Nathaniel’s gaze once again, but the Imaginary Man would not, and could not, bow to their pleadings. Not anymore.

“Come now, Bert,” he said softly. “I think you knew it all along.”

And then he was gone.

Bert, looking lost and forlorn, spun frantically on the spot. His chest heaved with hysterical gasps of air. “Nathaniel?” Silence. “Nathaniel!”

Bert ran through the house, calling his friend’s name, but found not a trace.

“He’s gone,” Bert realised. “Gone … Gonskies.”

In the suffocating silence that followed, Bert began to sob quite hopelessly, and desperately, fearfully clutched the battered white toaster to his chest. Alone.

- Love The Bad Guy
(Thanks again, Sophie!)

“Backwards with Bert and Nathaniel” – Part Two

Here is the second part to the reimagining of Sophie’s brilliant play, Backwards with Bert and Nathaniel. Third and final part will be up soon.

If you didn’t read the first part, please click here… Trust me, this will make no sense if you don’t!

But now, let us rejoin Bert and Nathaniel as they crouch in fear beneath the table:

Backwards with Bert and Nathaniel

“Well, what do we do?”

Nathaniel turned to stare at his friend, undecipherable brown eyes meeting soulful blue, and, as always, he found that Bert’s utter helplessness gave him strength to continue. “Okay,” he growled. “Let’s make a plan.”

Mere seconds later, he reached an impasse. “I’ve lost my pen.”

“I hardly think that matters at the moment,” Bert drawled.

Nathaniel scowled in response. “How am I supposed to compose a sufficiently detailed plan of our escape route if I can’t write or draw?”

“You should have thought of that before you lost your pen.”

Nathaniel opened his mouth with a ready retort, but paused. “Wait a minute …”

His hand emerged from behind him, clutching a broken pen that was bleeding black ink through his fingers. The two men stared, horrified.

“It’s foiling our plans before we even think of them!” Nathaniel hissed. “It somehow knew we were going to draw up a blueprint of an escape route, and so stole my pen and broke it, as a warning!” He drew a deep, gasping breath. “My God, Bert—it can read minds.”

His young friend shuffled uncomfortably. “Well, actually, about the—”

Nathaniel clenched his hand over Bert’s mouth. “Shhhh!” he scolded. “You must not think, okay? Not at all. But especially not about escaping, or of anything you wish to keep private.”

He pulled his hand away, and immediately Bert continued, “Okay, but Nathaniel …”

“What?” He pointed an accusatory finger. “You better not be thinking.”

Bert snorted and waved his hand dismissively. “No, no. It’s just … Well, I broke the pen. I accidentally sat on it. It wasn’t the toaster.”

Nathaniel stared, incredulous. “But if you broke the pen, why on earth did you look as horrified as I did?”

“I don’t know. I was just doin’ what you were doin’, I guess.”

“Oh, Bert.” He shook his head, his dark eyes full of pity, but Bert was oblivious as his face lit up with a sudden revelation.

“I just had a thought, Nathaniel.” The older man waved a hand in a silent indication for him to continue. “Well, it’s just … Maybe it is just a toaster.”

“Beg pardon?”

Bert shrugged. “It’s my understanding that a toaster is an inanimate object. It can’t think or move or plot our demise or any such thing.”

“And…?”

“Well, it just seems highly unlikely that an object of that nature could be planning the downfall of such a sophisticated race as we humans.”

Nathaniel gestured wildly. “But you saw it launch itself across the room!”

Bert folded his arms stubbornly. “I think it was pushed.”

“No!”

“Yes.”

Nathaniel rubbed his chin musingly, inadvertently giving himself an inky black goatee, as he concluded, “So you’re saying Humpty was pushed!”

Bert nodded, then frowned. “Ye… No. No, I’m saying that someone threw the toaster.”

“I was speaking metaphorically, Bert.”

“Oh.”

“But who?” Nathaniel cried. “Who would do such a thing?”

Bert shrugged once again. “So, if this really is just a toaster …” he gestured loosely above him, his eyes patient and questioning. Nathaniel nodded his agreement, and the pair crept out from the shadow of the table, staring at the appliance. The final dregs of their trepidation trickled away as they stared at the battered, unmoving threat.

Bert slowly lowered himself into the nearest chair and then, even more slowly, slumped forward until his nose was an inch away from the toaster. He remained transfixed for several long moments, before pushing himself back with such force that he balanced on the back legs of his chair before landing safely with a dull thud. “Well, I’m stumped.”

To be concluded…

- Love The Bad Guy

“Backwards With Bert and Nathaniel” – Part One

When I was studying Drama at high school, we were given the assignment of performing a two-person piece. It could be an act from a well-known play; it could be a complete scene written by us; it could be whatever we wanted.

Now, as it turned out, my partner’s sister had just finished writing a short play for her own class. And we loved it. It was quirky; it was funny; it was random. And random is always fantastic. We had a ball performing the piece, and, if memory serves me right, we received a rather decent mark for it, too.

And so it was that when my friend rediscovered this play on her computer years later, and subsequently emailed it to me, it brought to the surface some lovely memories.

And I wanted to make the play mine, in some shape or form.

So, with the kind consent of the original writer, I have turned the play into a short story; her brilliant dialogue is mostly the same, as is the plot (though, for clarity’s sake, I have reordered the scenes — in the original, the acts were in reverse order, hence the title). I have merely changed its form, tweaked the characters and altered the details a little.

Thank you again, Sophie, for allowing me to play in your playground.

Without further ado, I present Part One of…

Backwards with Bert and Nathaniel

     Nathaniel’s eyes, dark with a mysterious wisdom unknown to his companion, clenched closed when Bert’s crowing voice interrupted the silence.

     “I’ve come up with another philosophy! I believe that brings my total up to seven.” The young man swiftly stole the notebook from beneath Nathaniel’s fists and gloated, “Oh look, Nathaniel; you’ve only got five. Such a shame.”

     “Now wait a second,” Nathaniel protested, tousling his hair into an agitated blonde mess.  “You’ve got to share, Bert.  You can’t just give yourself points! Why, you could be thinking of anything—or nothing.”

     “Do I detect a hint of jealousy, Mr Number Two?”

     “Not at all,” Nathaniel gritted. “I was simply stating a rule. Remember, you forced me to divulge my philosophy regarding surrealism.”

     Bert hummed in reluctant agreement. “Very well.” A mere moment later, the man’s blue eyes lit up with a rejuvenated youthfulness as he boasted, “It’s actually quite a good one, so I should be glad of the chance to share it and subsequently bask in your awe.”

     Nathaniel snorted in a very ungentlemanly manner. “Out with it, then. Though I think it’s highly unlikely that you should bask in my awe. Whatever little awe I may or may not feel, I plan to keep entirely to myself.”

     “Well, alright.” Bert cleared his throat dramatically, and then drew his shoulders back into a ridiculous pose to denote the gravity of his announcement. In a deep, rumbling voice, he declared, “I believe that man is incapable of original thought. Everything we think has been thought before. And the environment around us inspires the things that haven’t already been thought of. Nothing that has come from man has ever been completely original.”

     Nathaniel stared blankly. Bert dropped his façade of sincerity and nudged his friend jovially. “What do you think? Pretty nifty theory, hey Nathaniel? You may now proceed in your worship of me.”

     The fair-haired man blinked, stunned for an instant longer, then nearly fell out of his chair under the tremors of his hysteria.

     “Why are you laughing?” Bert demanded.

     “‘Incapable of original thought’, indeed,” Nathaniel chuckled. “Bert, that was my third philosophy, should you care to remember! If not, I have documented evidence right here.” He stole his notebook back from his friend’s slackened, shocked grip and flipped back several pages. “There, see?”

     “Impossible!” Bert protested, but could not deny the words written before him in Nathaniel’s swift, insistent scrawl.

     “Quite possible,” his friend quipped in a proven rebuttal. “So, it looks like you’re still on six. Been there for a while now, haven’t we, Bert?” He chuckled once again as the dark-haired man’s eyes narrowed sulkily. “Well, now seems an appropriate time to announce my sixth philosophy.”

     Whatever glory may have been had in Nathaniel’s revelation was never to be witnessed. In a cacophony of violent noise and clattering destruction, a battered, white toaster was flung through their window, where it proceeded to land boisterously on the table.

     The men jumped fiercely and clung to one another during the raucous event, and, together, turned to observe their dining room’s new appliance.

     “What in the good name of Christmas was that?!” Nathaniel hissed, loosening his hold on Bert. His friend was resistant to such actions and continued to cling to Nathaniel’s shirt with clawed fingers.

     “It appears to be a flying toaster,” Bert said. He attempted to sound nonchalant in his observation, but his voice betrayed him with its warbled uncertainty.

     “Toasters don’t fly,” Nathaniel argued, finally succeeding in dislodging his friend’s hands from his shoulders. He brushed unseen dust from his sleeves, using the seconds of silence to try and slow his hammering heart.

     “…But what if it isn’t really a toaster? What if it’s something … else?”

     Nathaniel froze, hand still hovering over the lapel of his jacket. “Not a toaster?” he quivered. He met Bert’s eyes once more; his friend choked out a frightened plea, and suddenly they were both crouched nervously beneath the table, trembling in silence for several long minutes.

     “Is it gone?” Bert asked. The unexpected voice, though hushed, caused Nathaniel to startle severely. He shoved the younger man in his frustration, but consented to peer out from beneath their cover. With a sharp inhale of breath, he returned.

     “No. It’s still there.”

     “What’s it going to do with us, Nathaniel?” His eyes were petrified blue storms, by this point, and he clutched a baseball bat to his chest with a white-knuckled grip. Nathaniel was unsure from where, and at what point, Bert had actually obtained said bat, but was quietly comforted by its presence.

     “Heavens knows,” he answered. “Probably take us to its leader.”

     “You mean to say there’s more than one?!”

     “Most probably,” the older man nodded sagely.  Though his own hands were quivering with unkempt terror, he found that maintaining a false sense of knowledge about the situation kept him from succumbing to panic, and so he was most content to continue acting in such a manner. “If I am not mistaken, there is probably a whole herd of them, attacking people, raiding houses, taking hostages …”

     A high-pitched squeak of alarm was emitted from Bert’s lips, and Nathaniel nodded even more fervently, causing his blonde locks to fray wildly. “Yes! Why, we’re affectively hostages right now! You know, they’re probably armed.”

     A hint of bravery entered Bert’s eyes as he lifted the baseball bat. “Lucky we are, too.”

     Nathaniel frowned beneath his fringe as he pointed up to the wood of the table, in the general area that he knew the ‘toaster’ to be residing. “I don’t think a baseball bat really compares to an automatic rifle and a chainsaw.”

     “It has an automatic rifle and a chainsaw?!”

     “I assume so,” Nathaniel said coolly. “It’s concealing them rather well in its innards, I believe.”

     Bert pressed closer to his friend, lowering his voice even further. “It’s very clever, isn’t it?”

     “Unfortunately, yes.”

     “Well, what do we do?”

     Nathaniel turned to stare at his friend, undecipherable brown eyes meeting soulful blue, and, as always, he found that Bert’s utter helplessness gave him strength to continue. “Okay,” he growled. “Let’s make a plan.”

To be continued…

- Love The Bad Guy

Seven Sevenths of Raw Talent

Howdy readers!

The lovely Louise from My Other Book is a Tolstoy has issued a challenge. The Lucky 7 Challenge.

Here’s what you do:

Find a current work-in-progress of yours. Go to the 7th or 77th page , then to the 7th line of that page, and from there, copy and paste approximately seven lines and share them!

Now, I don’t have a 77th page of anything. I have too short an attention span to get any of my works-in-progress to that point, so I picked the 7th page from one of my random short stories. Here we go:

———————————————————————

She gazed thoughtfully at the other girls. They each sat comfortably around her, some with their legs folded beneath them, others stretched straight out in front of them; Ruby had her feet drifting gently in one of the pools, as though hoping that the water would encourage scales to grow. Melia ran a finger along her own thigh. She could not remember having ever seen a woman with a tail; perhaps the woman in her dream was simply her mind creating a hybrid of her knowledge—a concealed memory of her mother combined with the false image of legs.

———————————————————————

Confused yet? I don’t blame you.

Well, I had fun. So, who else wants to thrust seven lines of their unfinished, un-edited works into the harsh light of day for everyone to scrutinise? Stef, maybe? Or perhaps Katy? How about Mike or Chris? Who’s daring, I wonder…?

- Love The Bad Guy

I’m Walking On Sunshine Awards… WOAH-OH-OH!

Guess what?! I received The Sunshine Blog Award, and, needless to say, I’M WALKING ON SUNSHINE!

I’ll give you a moment to be struck by awe in the face of my witty and well-thought-out puns. I have more, too. There are so many songs I could have alluded to!

I’m walking on sunshine. Sunshine, lollipops and rainbows, everything… Sunshine, you are my sunshine. Ain’t no sunshine when she’s gone. Sunshine on my shoulders makes me happy.

Shall I go on? … No? Fine.

I digress.

My gratitude goes to Tanya from Green Paw-Paw, who very kindly gave me this award. You should definitely go check out the post in which she gave out the award. There are Harry Potter references coming out the wazoo!

Now, down to business. Rules:

1. Link back to the person who gave you the award. (Check! And thanks again!)

2. Post a picture of the award. (The one up top, I made myself, ’cause I was bored. Here’s the legit one:)

3. Answer ten questions about yourself.

4. Nominate any number of bloggers, so long as they fit the criteria of making you smile. (I was so honoured that Tanya picked me after I read this fine print. I make her smile! Yay!)

Okey dokey then. Ten questions – here we go:

1. Favourite colour: Too many. My room is painted orange, because it’s so bright and happy and Garfield-y. I like wearing blue or purple, because it’s soothing and calm. I also like black, ’cause it’s sexy.

2. Favourite animal: Cats, hands-down. Nothing like a pet that showers you with affection when you get home… Well, sometimes. Other times, they’ll just look you up and down like “What do you want, a hug? You’ve only been gone for a few hours.”

3. Favourite number: Thirteen. Two reasons: (a) That’s my birthday! (b) I like the superstitions behind it.

4. Favourite non-alchoholic drink: Hmm… Liption Ice/Green Tea, perhaps?

5. Prefer Facebook or Twitter: Facebook. I don’t understand Twitter; I’ve never used it and don’t plan to do so anytime soon.

6. My passion: Have you ever read my blog? Then I think you know what my passions are. But let’s sum it up: Reading. Writing. Bad Guys.

7. Prefer getting or giving presents: Both! Getting presents is always nice, but searching for that perfect thing that’ll will make a loved one smile is also wonderful. Hence why I like Christmas more than my birthday.

8. Favourite pattern: Lexical. *tiddy-boom*

9. Favourite day of the week: Oh, this is hard. Friday is nice — last day of the working week and all that. Saturday is also fantastic, because it’s the birth of the weekend where you can sleep-in and stay up late. And then there’s Sunday, which, although slightly burdened by the knowledge that Monday is to follow, is also great, because it is the lazy day of the week. You can stay in your pyjamas all day, and no one will blink an eye.

10. Favourite flower: Lilies. Beautiful! Thus why I used that image to remake the award pic. (You can also imagine how happy I was when Tinny ordered a bunch of beautiful oriental lilies to be sent to me on Valentine’s Day!)

And, without further ado, I now present the Sunshine Award to the following blogs:

• Dodging Commas (Stef’s inspirational travels and beautifully written posts always make me smile.)
• Reasonably Ludicrous (Not the first time that I’ve given these guys an award, but I can’t help it. They make me laugh, and that definitely fits the criteria of the award.)
• MJ Shorts (Mike is ridiculously talented; it is always a pleasure to read the stories that he posts.)
• Something A Week (Kyle does “something” each week, in case the blog title didn’t clue you in. Because of this, I don’t know if he is one for sharing Blog Awards with others; nonetheless, his creativity and mad-awesome skills always put a smile on my face, so I shall happily award him and share his fantastic-ness with you all.)

Congrats guys! Go spread the sunshine, and keep making us all smile.

- Love The Bad Guy

“The Ivories”

…The Ivories…

     It glared at him with a hot hatred of ivory and ebony. Beck shuddered.

     “It’s doing it again,” he whispered. His sister closed her book with an angry snap.

     “For God’s sake!” Lucille trilled. “Beck, this has to stop. It’s a piano, not some kind of monster.” She pinched the bridge of her nose and allowed her book to fall haplessly on her stomach; she was too frustrated, now, to lose herself in the words. “Stop acting like a child.”

     “I am not!” Beck argued; his attempt to square his shoulders in a charade of bravery was undercut by the immaturity of his response. “Just look at it,” he pleaded. “You cannot honestly say that it’s a normal piano.”

     She humoured him, raising her eyes to the dusty veneer of the ivories across the room. It sat harmlessly, inoffensively where it always had. Forgotten, but utterly normal. “Beck…” she started, releasing his name in a breathless sigh.

     “Don’t,” he snapped. “Don’t tell me I’m crazy, or that I should get over it, because I know when someone hates me. And that thing”—he thrust his finger towards the piano in a malevolent accusation—“despises me.”

     “There are so many things wrong with that sentence,” Lucille muttered.

     “Pathetic fallacy!” Beck exclaimed.

     “Excuse me?”

     “That’s what it’s called, isn’t it? When an inanimate object is more human than it seems? Pathetic fallacy.”

     Lucille rose from her chair to stand nose-to-nose with him. “Yes, Beck,” she drawled, flourishing the book in his face until he leant back slightly. “In books. Here, in the real world, inanimate objects are just that—inanimate! Toys do not come to life. The television does not have feelings. And the piano does not hate you!” She shouldered him, hard, and took gleeful pleasure in seeing him stumble as she left the room. “Get over it, Beck,” she called, throwing his words back in his face. “Seriously, just get over it.”

     Beck glowered resentfully in her absence; a moment later, he realised that he had his back turned towards the piano and so he spun wildly to face it. It smirked at him, a wicked grin that caused the man’s hands to shake.

     “Stay away from me,” he moaned. “Stay away!”

     Lucille woke suddenly from her nap. Her heart fluttered unpleasantly, and yet she could not recall what it was that had awoken her so suddenly. Perhaps it was guilt, she mused. Her brother had always been a little eccentric; it was unfair for her to have yelled at him for it.

     She stretched luxuriously on the bed until her shoulders offered a satisfying pop. “Beck,” she summoned pleasantly. Silence answered her; she rolled her eyes. Clearly, he was still mad.

     She rose from her bed and went in search, calling again, “Beck, where are you?” Her voice was gentle and slightly pleading, trying to convey her apologies before she met him in the halls.

     But he was nowhere. Gone out, maybe?

     She reclaimed her chair, drumming her fingers along the arm of it as she pondered her brother’s whereabouts.

     She could not say why she noticed the change in the piano, but something drew her eyes towards it. Lucille then noticed that the gleam of the ivories was missing; the dark, heavy fall had been drawn down to hide them.

     And this was strange.

     Since their mother had passed, no one used the piano; no one knew how. And Beck certainly wouldn’t have bothered to touch the thing, would he?

     Lucille smiled a little. Maybe he was trying to overcome his irrationalities. Maybe he had gone near the piano, even played it a little.

     She hummed quietly, a hushed, pleased sound in the back of her throat, which quickly spiralled into a relentless and shattering scream, as she lifted the piano’s fall and found the keys painted red.

     Lucille stumbled backward, still screaming and wiping fearfully at her blood-covered hands, hot and sticky. “Beck!” she screamed once more, wanting and needing him to emerge from his room, to laugh at her reaction or to gleefully see the understanding in her eyes.

     But he was nowhere, and never would be anywhere, but in that scarlet smirk that the piano offered to the screaming girl.

This short story was in response to one of this week’s Inspiration Monday prompts: death by piano. Hope you enjoyed.

- Love The Bad Guy