» Emily's Portfolio

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I know I have my writing on another website, but I figured putting it here would make it easier for everyone to read and critique. I would appreciate suggestions. I'm always open to new ideas, better description words, anything like that! I also hope that you all like my writing and want to read more! x)

I guess I'll just start copying and pasting some stories in here.

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THE RED FROG

Lightning flashed and rain poured, giving the house a haunted look. Yet there it stood, windows broken and covered in dust. It was surrounded by gnarled trees, which looked almost alive as the lightning forked through the sky. Overlooking a graveyard, the house creaked and swayed in the strong gusts of wind.

I shivered underneath my sweatshirt, wishing I had brought a heavier coat. Rain splashed on my glasses, making it practically impossible to see. My shoes squelched in the mud as I walked up to the gate. I fumbled with the lock, my numb fingers not being able to hold onto it. The gates were locked, meant to stay that way forever.

I glanced down the street, making sure it was clear. I saw the McDonald’s a block away. Oh, how I wished that I was there in the warmth. Stopping there before I came to this house, I had seen my teacher, Mrs. Smith, and she had been talking to her husband about going to see Slipknot in concert.

I had left McDonald’s quickly, not eating anything but just trying to get up my nerve. One of my friend from school had dared me to enter the old house. I laughed, not taking them seriously. Three more of my friends heard the dare and started cheering me on. I foolishly gave in and said I would do it.

I ran down the sidewalk, splashing in puddles of muddy water. I stopped in front of the gate and slipped through the bars. The house looked even creepier close up. I shivered again, slowly walking along the gravel path. I had to admit, I was scared.

I reached the stairs and began to climb them. Spiders watched me from their webs embedded in the doorway, their beady eyes glaring. There was no doorbell or knocker. The handles were brass but were rusty and dusty, just like everything else at this place.

I gathered my courage and reached for the handles. At the exact moment that I touched the cold metal, there was a cry of a wolf and I turned quickly, very frightened indeed. Birds flew into the sky and a pair of red eyes locked onto mine from the edge of the woods.

I screamed, turned around and yanked the tall doors open. There was a loud crashing sound as the door swung shut behind me. Breathing heavily, I pushed on the wooden doors. Locked, just as I thought. Panic rose into my throat, telling me to scream. I forced it back down, thinking about how I could laugh at my friends’ looks of awe when I told them about this house at the library, our meeting place.

I smiled and continued on my journey. I left footprints wherever I walked, stirring up dust, which made me sneeze. After recovering from a sneezing fit, I straightened up and noticed something that sparked my interest. Sitting on the mantle over the fireplace was a small, red ceramic frog. I crossed the foyer, my footsteps echoing through the house. A creaky staircase ascended to the dark and musty floor above.

Once I reached the fireplace, I stretched out my hand to pick up the frog. I was only an inch away when my hand jerked suddenly and sent the frog crashing to the floor. It shattered and I jumped away not wanting to be hit with flying shards of glass. The crash echoed for a minute and then the house became deadly silent. I knelt carefully, trying not to step on any glass. I picked up every piece, putting it back together. It was all there except for one piece. The mouth must have broken off and flown across the room because I didn’t see it anywhere. I set the frog back on the floor where it had shattered. I got ready to stand up but then realized what I had just done.

Looking back down at the floor, I saw the frog, not the pieces. I picked up the ceramic, my mouth hanging open. I brought the frog close to my eyes and squinted. There weren’t any cracks of any kind anywhere on it. I took a deep breath and jumped in fright as something thudded against the window. Sliding down the window was a dead raven. Its head hung at a strange angle and I knew at once that it was broken. The creature’s eyes were wide and black.

I opened my mouth in horror as it slid all the way down the window and fell with a soft thud onto the ground below. There came a loud snarl, and several yelps and whimpers from beneath the sill. My whole body shook as I slowly walked over to the window. I pressed my hands and forehead against the glass and received a shock as the front door burst open and three wolves jumped in.

The wolves were as black as night, except for their eyes. Blood red pupils glared at me, the trespasser. Their jaws were caked in blood. I glanced around and saw the staircase. Making a quick calculation in my head, I figured that I had a good chance of reaching the stairs before them. That is, if I ran. I had no other choice unless I cared to be eaten. That choice, however, was out of the question.

I looked back at the wolves one more time and made a dash for the stairs. The wolves caught onto my plan pretty quick, but I was quicker. They reached the bottom of the stairs by the time I was halfway up.

Starting to feel dizzy from the quick change in height, I used the banister for support. It didn’t help much, though. It fell away from underneath my fingers, leaving them with just air to grasp. I leaped the stairs two at a time, trying to create a further distance between the three wolves and me.

I finally reached the top stair and sprinted down the hall. Doors burst open behind me and ghosts flew out, howling their mournful song. I was frightened beyond thought and ran faster, barely reaching the end of the hall by the time the last door flung open. I rounded the corner and stopped dead in my tracks. My path was blocked by hundreds of ghosts. They looked like merely wisps of smoked taking the form of a human. One skimmed over the ground and stopped right in front of me. I couldn’t scream, it was impossible.

The ghost had no mouth. I looked past it, seeing the faces of the others. None of them had mouths, either. I found that strange and then dropped my mouth open. Well, at least I tried to…maybe I was too shocked to even move. Then I remembered the frog. When it fell, it shattered and the mouth was lost. It all fit. A terribly horrific thought came to my mind. My eyes widened and I slowly lifted my shaking hand up to my face. I moved it over my skin, feeling the where my mouth should be. There was nothing there, just skin.

I felt cold hands grab me around the neck from behind. I started to gag. I tried to loosen the grip but my fingers just traveled through the translucent hands. I couldn’t breathe and I soon became dizzy. Then everything went black.

My ghost now haunts the old house. It will remain there until the day when some brave stranger comes into this very house and replaces the small, red frog to its normal place on the mantle. Until that day comes, I will be locked in this house with the other murderous spirits.

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Many years passed since my death and I was starting to get used to being a ghost with no mouth. One day, I heard the door creak open. A young girl stepped inside. The first thing she noticed was the ceramic frog sitting on the ground. She didn’t look up the stairs or she would have seen me standing at the top. She ran over to pick up the frog. Looking around she saw the place on the mantle where no dust was collecting. She set the frog there and blew the rest of the dust off the other antiques.

The last I saw of the old house was the dark stairwell leading down to the first floor. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes and let the light take me away from the world of ghosts and on the wonderful path…towards freedom.

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I had to write The Red Frog in seventh grade for my english class. It was almost Halloween and she wanted everyone to write a scary story, but it had to have certain words in it. Like, a teacher's name, a place in our town, etc. That's why "McDonald's" and "Mrs. Smith" are in there.

What's really creepy about this story is...
Mrs. Smith went to go see a Slipknot concert the weekend after I wrote this. She hadn't even read my story and I had no idea that she was going to go.

Everyone in my class called me a psychic for a few days. xP

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The next post is going to be the first chapter of my story for NaNoWriMo. I didn't finish the 50,000 words this year...but hopefully I'll finish my story sometime. Anyways, here comes the first chapter!

....

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CHAPTER ONE

The sun shone through the windows of the small café, reflecting light off of the plastic cups. The grinding sound of coffee-making met the ears of anyone who opened the front doors. The fresh scent of ground coffee, caramel, and chocolate met their noses.

The café was filled with the same crowd as usual. In the back corner, a girl sat with her legs crossed, staring at a piece of paper as if making sure it wouldn’t run away. Her hair was tangled and put up into two very lopsided braids. She always ordered just a single cup of strong, black coffee with a dollop of whipped cream on top.

Two men and a woman sat at the bar stools, sipping their steaming cups of coffee with delight before they headed off to work. The men wore black suits with black ties and the woman wore the same. Many a time, they could be found chatting quietly amongst themselves, but not today. They seemed to be ignoring each other and trying not to catch the others’ gaze.

Sitting in his normal spot – a large booth by the front windows – was a boy who came to the café every morning, rain or shine. He was sometimes accompanied by his sketchbook, sometimes not. This morning was one of the sketchbook days. He was handsome, in a rugged sort of way. His hair was often spiked, but it was too early to have the gel out now. His face had been beautifully crafted by God; his eyes were set slightly back into his face, but not too much. His nose was a bit larger than a normal person’s but he cared not. His left ear was tainted by six holes that he made himself, held open with black studs.

The morning sun washed across his arms and legs as he stretched out in the booth, gazing dreamily out the window. He wore a plain white shirt and a pair of almost-too-tight pants. His arm muscles flexed as he put his hands behind his head, looking as if they might rip his shirt. After several minutes of contemplating, he picked up his pencil and hunched over his sketchbook.

Standing behind the counter, creating a latte for an old customer, was a girl who had worked at the Café du Chocolat for many years. She worked on weekends and often during the week after her classes. Her hair was a mousy brown, pulled back into a messy bun. She tended to chew on her lips when she carried out customers’ orders. It was something she liked to do to pass the time. While stirring the caramel into the latte, she peered around the coffee machines and caught a glance of the boy sitting at the booth.

She knew who he was. She knew all about his reputation. She wasn’t sure if everything she had heard was true, but with looks like those, they probably were. She sighed, shaking her head. After she finished making the latte, she handed it to the customer who handed her back a ten dollar bill.

“Keep the change, Abigail,” the old man said in a shaky voice. He patted her hand and left the café.

The girl had received a few tips before, but never a tip that was more than the cost of the coffee itself. She pocketed the extra cash and put the money for the latte in the cash register. Business was normally slow in the mornings on a Saturday, but she had nothing else to do. She went into the back room and wandered around, looking at the boxes of supplies. The loud crashing of the bells hitting the doors announced either the arrival of a customer or the departure of one. She scurried back to the counter, only to see that the three people in business suits had left and were now walking briskly down the street in time.

The girl leaned on the counter, putting her head in her hands. She watched the two customers that still remained in the café. The girl in the back corner shook her head frantically, cursing quietly to herself. She suddenly dropped her head on the table with a loud clunk. The boy by the front windows looked up questioningly. He looked around the café and soon his eyes met with Abigail’s. They were beautiful, deep brown eyes that looked almost sad. Abigail lowered her gaze quickly and began scuffling around behind the coffee machines, doing absolutely nothing at all.

She heard the quiet sliding sound of the boy getting up out of the booth. He came walking up to the counter and knocked on the hard wood. She popped out from behind the frappuccino maker.

“Hello, can I help you?” she asked in her sweetest work voice.

“Well, I can’t help myself,” he said in a slightly sarcastic way. He seemed to realize that he had hurt her feelings by the way her cheery smile drooped a bit. “I’m…I’m sorry,” he stuttered, “Sometimes I just say things. And they come out completely wrong.”

“That’s okay,” Abigail said, figuring that he was not really that sorry. “What would you like, then?” she asked again, hoping to get a real answer out of him this time.

“How about a Venti caramel mocha frappuccino?” the boy answered, digging into his back pocket for his wallet. He pulled it out and flipped through his money. Abigail poured some ice into the blender and mixed different kinds of liquids into it. Upon starting the blender, the girl in the back yelled and leaped up from her table, storming out of the café. Now it was just Abigail and the boy.

The boy carefully watched Abigail, examining how she moved her body and what kind of facial expressions she made. He watched her bite her bottom lip as she carefully poured a small amount of espresso into the blender. He imagined her with her hair down, the beautiful waves caressing her shoulders. He let his imagination roam free while she finished up his order.
After she gave him his frappuccino, he glanced at his watch.

“Where are they? They were supposed to be here ten minutes ago,” he whispered to himself, looking out the front window.

“Who?” Abigail asked absent-mindedly, thinking she was talking to him.

“Oh, just some of the guys,” he said, waving his hand beside his face, as if it was nothing important. “Here they are now!” he exclaimed.

An unruly crowd of boys threw open the door, greeting their friend with the usual whoops and hollers. After a few seconds of high-fives, they all sat down at the booth by the front windows. They all gathered around the boy’s sketchbook, laughing and making crude noises. Suddenly, one of the boys looked up and beckoned towards Abigail, who had been watching them.

“Hey, girl. Come over here,” he said, jerking his head back towards the table. Abigail reluctantly stepped out from behind the counter and headed over to the table. When she reached the table, she realized that the boys had been swooning over a portrait of a naked girl that the boy had drawn. She started to turn away, but one of the boys grabbed her hand and pulled her back.

“What do you think?” asked the artist of the picture. He leaned back and looked up at her, a smug look on his face.

“I think you…really captured her inner beauty,” Abigail replied. The boys burst out laughing at her comment.

“Arthur’d know all about her inner beauty, right, man?” laughed one of the boys, standing up to high-five the boy in the middle.

“Hell, yeah!” Arthur shouted back, slapping the boy’s hand. The rest of the boys in the group were laughing themselves to tears by that point. Abigail rolled her eyes and headed back to the counter.

‘So, the rumors are true,’ she thought to herself. She made it a point to avoid that boy whenever possible. She did not want to get caught up in his web of girls.

The boys were gathered around Arthur, waiting to hear him finish his story about his latest girl. Abigail watched them, laughing to herself about how pathetic they were. All they did was party, wish they could get laid, and then listen to the stories of the others who were actually successful.

‘People who go through college like that are just plain pathetic,’ she thought to herself. ‘College is for learning, not partying and definitely not for having a contest to see how many lays you can get in one night.’

Abigail walked into the backroom and sat down on a stool, waiting for the boys to leave. She sat there for more than twenty minutes before she heard the jingling of the door and the distant hollering of the boys. She hoped that Arthur had gone with them and that she would be alone in the café.

When she emerged from the back, she saw Arthur sitting at the booth, chewing on his pencil. He looked up to the sound of her tennis shoes squeaking on the floor. Putting down his pencil, he walked up to the counter and leaned on it.

“Do you want something else?” Abigail asked very insincerely. She realized the harshness of her words, but did not bother to apologize.

“Actually, yes, I do,” Arthur said, raising an eyebrow. “I was wondering if you would like to model for me some day. You’ve got the greatest body and the perfect attitude…”

“No, thank you,” she replied sharply. She fiddled with the tie on the back of her apron.

“How come, babe?” he asked, slouching down on the counter, batting his eyelashes. Abigail stared at him, unable to believe that he was trying to win her over after what had just happened.

“Because I know what you do with your other models and I don’t want any part of that.”

“Aww, it’s all in good fun,” he laughed, sliding his hand across the wood in an attempt to touch hers. She jerked her hand away and crossed her arms across her chest.

He sighed, looking her up and down. “But you would be perfect…”

“Oh, well in that case,” Abigail said, flipping her hair over her shoulder, mocking the girls who would actually fall for Arthur’s trap. He looked up in hope, his eyes growing wider. “No!” she yelled at him.

He turned his head to the side. He liked Abigail’s fiery attitude and curvy body. What he did not like that her stubborn side and the part inside of her that kept her from having just a little bit of fun.

“Well, if you ever change your mind, Abigail,” he said, reading her nametag, “here’s my number. And down on the bottom, that’s my room number. My roommate is never there.” He winked at her, pushing a piece of paper across the counter.

Abigail looked at the paper, her arms still crossed. Arthur watched her for a few more minutes before he finally gave up. He went back to the booth and picked up his sketchbook and pencil. He put them in his bag, which he slung over his shoulder. He stopped in front of the door and looked back at Abigail, who walked into the backroom once more. He shook his head and left the café.

Abigail did not leave the backroom until she was positive that he was gone. She poked her head out and looked around. It was completely silent. No one was left in the café but her. That’s the way she liked it. She slowly walked over towards the piece of paper with Arthur’s number and dorm on it. She crumpled it up in her hand and held it over the trash can. But instead of dropping it into the trash, Abigail pocketed it.

She wondered why she wasn’t able to bring herself to throwing it away. Maybe there was something deep down inside of her that wanted an adventure. Something inside that wanted her to leave her shell and have a little bit of fun. Whatever it was that compelled her to keep that tiny piece of paper, she might never know.